


Candy, Coffee & Alcohol

by determunition



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Existential, Humanstuck, Multi, Unfinished, but not as much as my last fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/determunition/pseuds/determunition
Summary: Problem Sleuth is up to his eyeballs in missing persons, Ace Dick is up to his eyeballs in the hijinks of the increasingly powerful Midnight Crew, and Pickle Inspector is up to his eyeballs in a teleporting mansion outside of town. Poorly constructed metaphor aside, everyone's eyeballs are pretty tired. But there's no rest for the weary, as once the missing persons start to correlate with the mansion's peculiar residents, the city's underbelly only becomes more convoluted.





	1. Prologue: Business as Usual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this is my attempt at a "serious" fan fiction set in a "grounded" universe. Admittedly there are a slew of themes in this story that are similar to those in my last fic, but I still think what I wrote is pretty good (better than anything in SMHFMAB, at least). This story isn't finished, and probably never will be. Like SMHFMAB, this is more a catharsis to me than anything else. But if you thought the Crew got shafted in SMHFMAB, then this is the fic for you! This is more a Problem Sleuth fic than a Felt fic, but that's kind of the point! Hope you enjoy what I managed to finish before burning out on this story!

Problem Sleuth was very tired. He had needed so much coffee in the past few days that he could no longer wash its bitter taste out of his mouth. Not that working as a detective got him much other sustenance. About a week ago, Sleuth had received a missing person report. He didn’t think much of it, as it was some hack criminal who had probably been offed in the dead of night in a forgotten alleyway. No one would miss him, and Sleuth would never find him. Then more reports started coming in. Every day, there was a new file on Sleuth’s desk detailing a new disappearance. Sometimes he received two reports in a day. They were often about usual ne’er-do-wells, like the first one, but some were people that Sleuth had never heard of, and people whom the files made out to be at least somewhat decent people. A teacher, a fireman, a tailor… none of it added up. Sleuth tried to find something, any reason for these innocents to disappear, and found nothing. The writing in the files was starting to swim before his eyes. 

“Sleuth? Do you want to… come to dinner with Ace and I?” Sleuth looked up from his desk for what felt like the first time all day. He managed a weak smile at his anxious coworker. “No thank you, Inspector…” he croaked out, surprised at the state of his vocal chords from lack of use. “I need to… keep working. You have fun, though.” The Inspector frowned and wrung his hands lightly. “I’m not usually one to oppose, but… I think you need to get out of the office. You’ve been in here all week. I can’t imagine what that must be doing to you…” he trailed off, becoming very interested in a random crack in the wall. Sleuth sighed inwardly. He didn't want to leave his work alone, but he couldn't turn down Pickle Inspector. The tall man was far too polite to refuse, and one always felt the need to humor him. “All right,” Sleuth capitulated, standing up and gaining balance. “Maybe some fresh air will do me good.”

They drove over to a small Italian hole-in-the-wall, where Ace Dick was waiting for them. “Hey, Sleuthy!” he called. “Finally crawled out of your cave?” Sleuth rolled his eyes and sat down. “I’m afraid so. Seems you guys are under the impression that I need to get out.” The stout man smirked. “Well, if your charisma is so in the toilet that this bundle of nerves can sway you, I’d say we weren't wrong.” Inspector tittered quietly. As much as Sleuth hated to admit it, the smell of food permeating the air was beginning to make him salivate. They ordered food and Ace began going on about how his own jobs had been going. “It's been all about the Midnight Crew lately,” he groaned. “Every damn day they're robbing a bank or chucking a body off a bridge. Around 90% of my cases this week have been nothing but Crew bullshit. I swear, those assholes are gonna make me grey…”

“Can the police not handle them on their own?” Inspector inquired softly. Ace shrugged. “Probably. But I'm good muscle, and can use lead that the police wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. I'm annoyingly close to just being a hired gun.”

Their food came, and at that moment Sleuth realized how hungry he was. He tore into his pasta like an animal, and ignored the bemused reactions of his colleagues. “What about you, Inspector?” Ace mumbled around a mouthful of pizza. Inspector cringed at his lack of etiquette, but answered. “My work has been strange of late,” he muttered, deep in thought. “I’ve been investigating a strange mansion on the outskirts of town. Citizens say it simply sprung out of nowhere just over a week ago.” That got Sleuth’s interest. “Anyone live there?” he asked after swallowing another mouthful of spaghetti. Inspector looked off into space. “Perhaps. I haven’t found a way in. I tried the door, and it was locked. I knocked, and no one answered. Then I began feeling very anxious, so I left.” 

“Did you look in any of the windows?” questioned Sleuth. Inspector shook his head. “Absolutely not. That would be rude, and I’m not even sure if I would be justified in such an activity. Perhaps the locals are simply wanting attention. Though it is odd, that a large green mansion would exist for some time and no one would say anything…”

“Wait. did you just say it’s green?” Ace interrupted. “Yes, a rather bright green too. And it appears freshly painted,” the detective added. Ace scoffed. “Hmph. I’d believe it came from nowhere too. Who in their right mind paints a house bright green?”

“I wouldn’t judge them,” muttered Inspector.

“‘Course you wouldn’t.” While this exchange continued, Sleuth was thinking. A mansion that allegedly appeared around a week ago… maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe he was just paranoid. _Keep it up, Sleuth. Soon you’ll be as bad as Inspector._ Suddenly Sleuth found himself yawning. “Hey… guys?” he mumbled. “Would one of you mind… driving me home? I’m kind of tired.” Inspector smiled his small, pleasant simper. “Of course. It’s time you rested.”

“I’ll foot the bill,” Ace offered. “You guys can go.” Inspector nodded a thank you and led Sleuth out to his car. They started driving, and Sleuth fought to stay awake. There was a favor he needed to ask. “Inspector?” he muttered. “Yes?”

“Could you case that mansion for me? Don’t tell anyone, just… look around some more. Take some pictures if you can. I know it’s kind of uncalled for, but… I’ve got a funny feeling.” Inspector stared unblinking at the road, going over the request in his head. Finally he nodded hesitantly. “All right, Sleuth… I don’t want you to lose sleep over anything else.” Sleuth nodded gratefully, and kept nodding, until he nodded himself off to sleep.

\-------------------

Somewhere on the other side of town, a man woke up as if from a nightmare. He found himself in an unfamiliar bed, and in an unfamiliar room. Both of which were bathed in green. For one terrifying moment, the man knew nothing, not even his own name. What was it again?

_...Die._

That was his moniker, anyhow. Die sat up, and felt strangely numb. The air around him seemed nonexistent, and the room was neither hot nor cold. He noticed a glass of water sitting on the bedside table along with a small note addressed to him in flowery handwriting. His throat was rather dry (though it didn’t feel as such), and he took a tentative sip. It just tasted like any water, and Die didn’t feel sick or anything. Not poison, then. Die had always been paranoid about that sort of thing. He sat on top of the bed cross-legged, and read the note. 

_Good evening. Please don the suit and come down the hall._

Die looked across the room and saw an open wardrobe, also green. Inside hung a viridescent ensemble, which he supposed the note was referring to. He was already wearing underwear and a pale green undershirt, so he slid out of bed, having to take a moment to catch his balance, and walked over to the wardrobe. He put on the slacks first, slightly put off by how well they fit him. Next was the shirt, where he fumbled with the buttons. He found a deep green bowtie, and sloppily tied it using the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. Finally was the coat, which buttoned down to his thighs, had a wide collar, and long tails that almost reached the floor. It was a strange outfit, but it was surprisingly comfortable. There was a pair of dress shoes with spats sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, and these too fit Die eerily well. 

Die supposed the next order of business was to walk down the hall, which was most likely outside his door. He slowly creaked it open, and looked around warily. Not seeing anything particularly dangerous, he stepped out into the hallway. There were an unnecessary amount of clocks on the walls and buffet, which all ticked in dissonant unison as Die began to walk toward a dark green door. He gingerly raised a fist to knock, but before he could a sharp voice filled his mind. 

“ _Enter._ ” It hadn't come from behind the door, nor from behind Die. It seemed to have appeared directly within his consciousness. Shaking, the wiry man opened the door. Inside was a well-furnished office with a large desk in the middle, facing the door. At the desk sat a man in a white suit, with white hair and unnaturally white skin, which contrasted the unending sea of green. It was a face Die had seen several times, but had since grown alien and unrecognizable.

“ _Sit._ ” 

So the voice was coming from the man, though his mouth didn't move with the words. Die sat down, not daring to disobey. “H-hello, sir,” he muttered.

“ _I understand you are confused._ ”

“Yes, I would say… so,” Die nodded. He found it difficult to articulate all of the questions he had. Where was he? Why didn’t he feel alive anymore? Who… no, _what_ , had the blanched figure before him become?

“ _You, and all of your coworkers, are based in Felt Manor. You have been wrenched out of time, rendered inconsequential, so there is less temporal fracturing for your poor leader to restore. I am the same as I have always been, though that will soon be changed for the better. Any more questions?_ ”

Die had many. He wanted to stand up and scream all of them into the man’s face. But he knew better than to do that. Instead he limply shook his head and mumbled, “no, sir.”

The man stood up from his chair and made his way around the table. “ _Very good. I think you will find this to be an occupation with many benefits. Now rise, please._ ”

Die stood up shakily. “ _I have two things to give you. Both are integral to who you are._ ” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a white cloth doll, and a small metal box. “ _This is a juju. A very potent one. The purpose of the pins in the box will become clear to you._ ” He put the doll and the box of pins in Die’s spidery hands. Die stared at the items with a mix of fascination and abject terror. Evidently he was meant to learn how they worked on his own. 

“ _And finally, your identification._ ” Before Die’s eyes, the man materialized a green top hat out of thin air. He turned it around until Die was looking at a number. “ _Onto your knee._ ” Die dropped down, and felt the hat being placed onto his head. 

“ _Welcome, number six._ ”


	2. Close Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey who are these spooky time guys

_Two days later._

It was late. Approaching one in the morning. The city was dark and quiet, with only a couple dim lights in the windows, scattered out like fireflies. At this hour, even the streetlamps were mostly dark. It was the perfect hour to rob a bank.

Hearts Boxcars had been on a stakeout since 9, and two hours after the bank director left he was finally certain that there was no one left in the building. He pulled out a large radio from the glove compartment and called the rest of the gang. “Guys, there ain’t no one left inside. I confirmed it as best I could from here. Over.”

“Roger.”

“Roger that.”

“Roger!”

Boxcars stepped out of the car and stretched his legs. If, by chance, there would be fisticuffs, he wanted to be ready for it. No doubt the cops would show up, as well as that short detective who could somehow fight Boxcars for more than thirty seconds. Boxcars hated that guy.

Five minutes later, the Crew drove up in a shiny, black car. That was the Crew car. If anything happened to it, there would be no survivors. Diamonds Droog stepped out on the driver’s side, adjusting his white tie for dramatic effect. He always drove the car, and it was unlikely anyone else would be allowed such a precarious privilege. The car was his, after all. 

Clubs Deuce came out of the backseat. He was a short, child-looking man, and definitely not someone one would think to be a demolitions expert. “Hiya, Boxcars! How did the stakeout go? See anything weird?” he asked excitedly. 

“Shut the hell up, Deuce. You’re gonna wake the whole damn block.” This rude interruption came from Spades Slick, the Midnight Crew’s de facto leader. He was looking none too pleased, but then again, Boxcars wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Slick with a face that didn’t indicate a desire for bloodshed. “Then it would be in our best interests to rob the bank before that happens,” Droog stated dryly, putting his machine pistol over his shoulder. Slick stuck out his tongue in reverb, but started towards the bank with the Crew in tow.

Deuce picked the front entrance lock, and they were in. The Crew hadn’t encountered much opposition in a robbery for some time, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still careful. They went slowly through the dark high-ceilinged main hall with their guns at the ready, in case of security, or worse: rivals. 

“Did you hear that?” Deuce asked out of the silence. “Hear what?” Droog asked calmly. Sometimes Deuce heard things that weren’t even there. Suddenly, Boxcars heard a strange noise. It was fast, like a baseball bat swinging through the air. “That!” Deuce exclaimed. “Now I hear it too,” Boxcars chimed in. Droog went still and listened closely. Then the noise came again, this time very close to Boxcars’s ear. 

“Shit!” Slick exclaimed, grabbing at his ears. “What the hell was that?!” Boxcars was about to voice his confusion when he noticed something. “Slick… you’re wearing Deuce’s hat,” he said slowly. Indeed, Deuce’s small porkpie hat was now somehow on Slick’s head. As Boxcars looked around, he saw that Deuce was now wearing his own hat, and Droog was wearing… another hat. “What the hell…” he muttered, taking off the hat and looking it over. It was a yellow construction hat. Droog then looked up quickly, obviously trying not to look frantic. “Where’s my hat?” he asked tensely. Everyone shrugged; no one could explain what just happened. Droog ground his teeth and reached for a cigarette. Everyone else swapped hats back, and Droog threw the yellow hat to the ground. He stomped on it, but as his foot came down it seemed to change back into his own hat, which he accidentally crushed. “Shit!” he barked explosively, scooping up his hat and trying to fix the damage. He gave up and just put the half-caved in hat back on his head. 

They kept walking, albeit more cautiously than before. They found the door to the safe room, which Boxcars promptly kicked down. The safe had a shiny new door - and it wouldn't be shiny and new much longer. “Boxcars, crack the safe,” Slick ordered, pulling out a knife and pointing it at the safe for emphasis. Boxcars smiled and cracked his knuckles. “Guys?” Deuce broke in. “I smell something burning…”

Before anyone could say anything in response, a bright, warm light erupted at the opposite end of the small room. It seemed like a fire had started from absolutely nothing. To make matters stranger, a large, built man stepped out of the fire, looking around with interest. “Hmm. Not quite where I wanted to go…” he trailed off, catching sight of the Crew. “But it'll do,” he concluded, stepping into the room. Suddenly, another, smaller man came flying across the room, almost banging into the wall. The first man helped him gain his balance. He was wearing the yellow hat that Droog had been suddenly wearing earlier, and looked ecstatic. “Holy _shit!_ ” he shouted at no one in particular. “That was goddamned _unreal!_ ” The Crew weren't sure what he was talking about, or where he came from for that matter. 

The two made an odd pair, thanks in no small part to their wardrobe. They both wore garish green suits of different styles, and each wore a ridiculously colored hat (the large man’s was red and white) with a number on it. Slick seemed to realize that they’d done nothing but stare for thirty seconds. “The hell are you standing around for?” he barked. “Shoot these crazy bastards!”

Startled into action, the Crew opened fire. Suddenly the smaller man became a blur, completely obscuring his larger companion. Then he was right in front of them, one hand behind his back and the other in a fist. He opened the fist, and tens of bullet shells fell to the floor. His mouth curled into a shit-eating grin. “Now!” he interjected loudly. “Let's see who we have here.” Behind him, the larger man began edging over to the safe. Boxcars opened fire on him, but the smaller man’s arm whipped around at an incomprehensible speed and none of the bullets hit. He then took his other hand from behind his back, revealing four wallets. 

“You little shit!” Slick shouted. The fast man put a finger to his lips. “Hmm… Draco Diamanté,” he read in a pretentious voice. Droog’s eye twitched involuntarily. “Fancy shit, that,” the man commented condescendingly. He tossed the wallet over his shoulder and into the fire behind him. Droog fired off a round, and all of it was dodged. “Clyde Droll. Pretty posh name for a _kid,_ ” he chuckled. Deuce looked uncharacteristically angry. That wallet, too, went into the flames. “Oh, this is rich… Horacio Hegemon. God, Where do you assholes dig up these names?” He was shouting more gleefully than ever. Boxcars made the executive decision to launch himself at the nuisance. This proved a stupid idea, as his target simply stepped out of the way. Boxcars fell right on his face, but realized seconds later that the larger man was in the safe. Now was his chance. 

He crawled along the floor as fast as he could manage, and reached the safe in seconds. The larger man’s head jerked up to acknowledge the unwelcome company. “Hand over the dough,” Boxcars rumbled, running at him. The man anticipated this and swung the fire extinguisher he had brought with him, catching Boxcars upside the jaw. “Dammit!” Boxcars cursed, losing his balance. The man ran past him. Meanwhile, the fast-talking one was still taunting. “And the lucky last…” he started, Slick seething and swinging knives uncontrollably to no avail as the man kept moving just before they hit. “Itchy, I got everything. We’ve got to go before the place burns down,” the large man interrupted. The smaller man, evidently called Itchy, made a face and spiked Slick’s wallet into the fire. “Phoo. You and your fire safety,” he scoffed like an angry child. The large man walked back into the fire with the stolen money, and Itchy was gone in a yellow-green blur. The Crew, realizing the danger of being inside a burning building, swiftly absconded from the joint. They all piled into the Crew car, and Droog jammed his foot on the gas just as the police showed up. 

“What was that? Who were _they?!_ ” Deuce cried out, echoing everyone’s thoughts. Slick was leaning on the car door, seething with unspeakable rage. “What are we gonna do, boss?” Boxcars asked tentatively. Slick peeled himself off the dashboard and stared angrily into the road. “First. We stop carrying our damned wallets around.” Everyone nodded, even Droog. “Second.” He turned from the road to face his colleagues, so that they could see the murder in his eyes. “We find those bastards and kill them.” 

\--------------------

Sleuth was snapped out of his usual work-induced trance by Inspector’s head poking into his office. “Sleuth,” he called softly. “Would you mind coming over to my office? I have some things to show you.” Sleuth nodded and got up, stretching his arms and back. Even after cutting down his hours in order to get some sleep in the past couple days, Sleuth’s dilemma with the missing persons wasn't any closer to being solved. 

Upon Sleuth entering Inspector’s office, he forced down the small twinge of jealousy that came up every time he walked into the room. Inspector was infamous for his active imagination, which assisted in solving quite a few cases thought to be unsolvable. He was so good at coming up with every possible cause and effect of a crime, and for that his services were paid for much more handsomely than either of his coworkers. For starters, he had an actual desk, as opposed to Sleuth’s lame cinderblock and wood paneling combo. He kept different sorts of exotic liquor in tall, fancy vases in one corner of his office, and his window was larger than Sleuth’s or Ace’s (though Sleuth had never seen it with the curtains open). He also had a small television on his desk. That was new. 

“Please, sit down,” Inspector requested cordially. He poured Sleuth a cup of tea, then one for himself. “Are you comfortable?” he asked. Sleuth nodded. “Yeah, yeah. get to it already,” he exclaimed. Inspector looked rather disconcerted, and quickly drew some files from within his desk. “Terribly sorry,” he muttered. “I don't mean to keep you long.” He laid the file onto the table. “You wanted me to case that mansion. I found time in the last couple of days to fulfill that request.”

Sleuth clapped his hands and leaned over the table. “Stupendous! Anything come of it?” Inspector shrugged. “Notes, mostly, and pictures of anything I deemed picture-worthy.” Sleuth pulled out a legal pad covered in chicken scratch. “Inspector, I can't read any of this shit,” he stated irritatedly. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” Inspector mumbled in embarrassment. “Basically, no one went in or out in all the time I was there. I heard a shout or an interjection from time to time, meaning that at least someone lives there, but knocking again yielded no results.” Sleuth nodded. “And the pictures?” he asked. Inspector took them out of their plastic bag. “They aren't the best…” he trailed off. Sleuth held up the first one. It was labeled (he guessed) “second floor middle window.” It was grainy, but through the window the manor looked to be green on the inside too. “Are those shapes clocks?” he asked, tracing some dark shapes on what would be the mansion’s walls. Inspector nodded. “I believe so. I can't imagine why someone would need so many.” Sleuth looked at the second one, labeled “figure on first floor.” It was a shot through a tall, first floor window with a feminine figure silhouetted against the light. She looked to be wearing a wide brimmed hat, and was perhaps holding a cigarette. “A resident?” Sleuth asked. “It seems to be. I felt rather strange taking a picture of someone else without their permission,” admitted Inspector, twiddling his thumbs. The third and final shot was by far the strangest. It was labeled “person?” and seemed to depict nothing but a grainy blur through the window. “Why the name?” Sleuth asked. 

“Because,” Inspector said, “when I was taking the picture, that blur was moving.” This only got stranger. But though the file had been combed through, Inspector wasn't done with Sleuth yet. He turned on the small television and put in a small tape. “I’m sure you heard of the bank fire early this morning?” Inspector asked. Sleuth rolled his eyes. “Sure. It's about 90% of Ace’s dialogue today. Just him complaining about getting a call at two in the morning.”

“Yes, well, the police managed to recover security footage from that hour, and entrusted it to me. They don't seem to want to deal with its implications,” Inspector mused. Sleuth’s interest was piqued. His colleague hit the play button, and monochromatic footage filled the screen. It showed the Midnight Crew in front of the vault, getting ready to crack it, when a fire suddenly started from nothing. Then a man stepped out of the fire. Then another man seemed to appear from thin air. The Crew gawked for a moment (Sleuth couldn't blame them) and then opened fire. The second man suddenly seemed to disappear into nothing but a whirlwind. Then he stopped and opened one of his hands, letting a bunch of… somethings fall to the floor. Inspector paused the video. 

“With how many times the Crew shot them…” Inspector whispered nervously. “Both of those men would be dead. Those things the smaller man dropped? … I think those are the bullet shells.” He gulped. Sleuth rubbed his temple. “So you're saying these guys have _superpowers_?” he questioned half-sarcastically. “One of them entered the room via _fire_ ,” Inspector reminded him. “But the smaller one, the fast one… he puts me in mind of the third picture. And look at their outfits. Suits, bow ties, tailcoats. They're obviously well off, or at least whoever employs them is. I think these two events have a connection.” Sleuth ran it over in his head. “Knowing you, they probably are,” he said finally. “We need to investigate the mansion further. I'll come with you this time.” 

“What more will we find out?”

“Oh, loads more,” Sleuth smiled deviously. “We’re finding a way inside.”


	3. Aggressive Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> breaking and entering is a-ok if it's for justice

_One day prior._

Die had been staring in deep thought at his open box of pins for some time. He still hadn’t worked up a nerve to see what they did, and he was afraid to try. It was fairly early in the morning, as the clocks read. Die was sitting at the edge of a fancy couch in a large, high-ceilinged parlor. The parlor was full of thirteen others (or so Die counted), and they all had different colored hats, though all shared a color with one bearing a white stripe. Some Die recognized, but the majority were unfamiliar. Mostly everyone was talking, and some were showing off uncanny abilities that they hadn’t possessed before awaking in the Manor. Two of them had even discovered a mutual enjoyment of billiards, and were now shooting a game on the table across the room. That was what their hats meant. Billiards. The heads of the pins in the box looked like tiny billiard balls. Did this mean they connected to each person in the room? Die was too scared to find out.

“Hey, freak! You joinin’ the party or not?” Die looked up to see a somewhat short man in a yellow construction hat. He had been all around the room, seeming to possess some kind of enhanced speed ability. He was also very loud. “No…” Die muttered, snapping the box shut. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he demanded, words spilling out of his mouth in a voice that sounded high on helium. Die drew the doll and box close. “They’re mine,” he stated seriously, hoping that would work. But they weren’t in his hands anymore. “Ha ha, Really?!” the guy asked, ripping the box open. “Ooooh! It’s like our hats! And this is what, a goddamned… voodoo doll?” he rambled, examining the cloth doll.

“Give them back,” said Die, standing up. He reached for the doll, and it was yanked away from him in a heartbeat. “So the green one’s you, then,” the man mused. He pulled out the solid green-headed pin with his teeth. “Let’s see what happens!” he exclaimed, grinning.

“No!” Die shouted, lunging forward. But he fell through nothing, and almost onto his face. The guy had disappeared in a burst of green energy. Some people were looking at Die, and he felt his face get hot as he got to his feet. Suddenly, the man was back in another flash, looking considerably less upbeat than before. He pushed the pin box and doll back into Die’s hands with a look of fear and disgust. “Keep your creepy shit,” he whispered, zipping away before Die could question him. Die looked at the items with renewed interest. So the doll wasn’t just a voodoo doll. If the pins didn’t hurt anyone in the immediate vicinity…what did they do?

\---------------------

_Present day._

“Lower your flashlight, Inspector.” It was dark out, and just around the hour where most of the city was getting to bed. This of course was also the hour that most gangs and hard-boiled detectives were getting up. “Sorry, Sleuth,” he whispered. “I’m just worried that we’ll trip over something. This is certainly not an area we want to be immobilized in.”

“You’re paranoid,” scoffed Sleuth. By the now muted light of the flashlight, they skirted the house’s perimeter, looking for a way in. “Aha!” Sleuth whisper-yelled, pointing to a set of slanted cellar doors. “I figured an old-style mansion like this would have some of these.”

“They're locked,” noted Inspector. Sleuth smirked. “Good thing I brought hardware,” he remarked, pulling a pair of bolt cutters out of his deep trench coat pocket. Luckily, the lock was attached to a cable, making it much easier for Sleuth to cut it off. “Sleuth, this is very illegal…” Inspector stated, looking around in case anyone might be watching. 

“Just occurred to you, did it?” Sleuth returned sarcastically, throwing open the doors to reveal a staircase. “Put your light back up. We’ll need it down there.” Inspector turned his flashlight to the darkness and they started down. 

“I don't like to break the law,” Inspector continued quietly. “I like to believe that there’s a perfectly accessible and lawful way to do anything…”

“Well, you obviously haven't been on too many jobs like this,” interrupted Sleuth. “If it's what you're looking for, there's no nice way about it.”

“Hm. You should have brought Ace instead. He's much more lenient about getting his hands dirty,” Inspector pointed out. 

“Eh, hindsight’s for the weak. Swing the flashlight around the room, would you?” Inspector turned the flashlight to face the cellar walls and floors. There was a lot of old liquor and a currently nonfunctional still, but nothing else of note. “I suppose this room would be rather popular earlier in the century,” mused Inspector, the brewing materials bringing the image of a 1920’s speakeasy to mind. In fact, had he not heard reports of the mansion not existing until the last week, he would easily believe that to be the room’s original intent. 

“Well, it won't be much use to us now,” Sleuth concluded. “You went over some stairs. Let's see if we can get to the core of this joint.” They found the stairs again, and climbed up to the door, which oddly enough seemed to lock from the inside (i.e. their side). Inspector’s mind ran wild with possibilities. Did this cellar used to be a residence? Going with the speakeasy theory, was the lock installed that way for secrecy in case of police suspicion? Was it that way in case of a break-in, or perhaps an impromptu investigation of criminal activity? Perhaps the mansion’s owner hired an inexperienced locksmith, or maybe even swindled by someone pretending to be a locksmith! it was fairly good craftsmanship for a fake, however…

“Hey! Earth to PI.” Sleuth was snapping his fingers in Inspector’s face. The latter shook his head vigorously and came back to the present. “My apologies,” he mumbled. “Don't mention it. Looks like we won't have to worry about prying the door open,” said Sleuth, turning the knob and slowing pushing the door open. It made some of that infernal creaking that always came out of a door when needed least, but that didn't appear to affect anything as there was no one in the hallway on the other side of the door. 

Inspector immediately felt the need to squint. He had seen in his casing the other day that the mansion was green both inside and out, but the surrounding monochrome was even more stark and garish now that he was actually inside. He had also grossly underestimated how many clocks were in the building. The picture he had taken led his mind to accept the possibility that whoever owned the mansion collected various timepieces, and had a room dedicated to their display. If that hypothesis was still true, then it appeared that the entire mansion served to house that monstrous collection. The air was filled with ticking, though not all in unison. Inspector switched off the flashlight; the lights were off in the hallway, but the moonlight streaming through the windows was enough to see by. 

Sleuth procured a notepad and started jotting things down, muttering to himself as he did so. “Shit ton of clocks, all green, old-ass furniture…” Inspector continued onward, leaving his companion to his own devices. He could imagine some tragic eldritch horror buried deep beneath the floorboards, or some science experiment gone wrong, even with the bright palette. There was an air of mystery that permeated his senses and crawled its way to his brain, tantalizing it with the wildest of fantasies. Inspector didn’t want to believe that the mansion had just appeared out of nowhere; it felt as if it had a history, a time all it’s own. Inspector reached the end of the hall, only to find that it intersected with another. This one echoed faint voices and music. “Sleuth?” he called softly. “I hear evidence of residence.” He looked back. Sleuth was still taking notes and examining things. “Problem Sleuth,” he called a little louder. Sleuth turned fast. “Huh?”

“There are voices down this hallway.” Sleuth came over to where Inspector was and listened intently. “Right you are,” he confirmed, moving slowly towards the source of the noises. Inspector followed apprehensively. They came upon a cracked open door, which cast a sliver of light onto the floor. Sleuth tentatively put his eye to the door. “Keep watch, Inspector,” he whispered. “A bunch of guys… in green suits… they’re all wearing hats... “ He kept jotting notes on the legal pad; Inspector imagined he was attempting some crude sketches of what he saw. “Couple of them are shooting pool… ah, that’s gotta be what their hats are. Little weird - SHIT!” he cut himself off loudly. Inspector whirled around to see that Sleuth had been knocked back by the door opening. In the doorway was the largest man Inspector had ever seen outside of nightmares. He wore a maroon and white hat, and looked on the neutral side of angry. Like he expected them to be there.

“Found ‘em!” he called, raising a monstrous fist. Inspector found he couldn’t make his legs move. Sleuth must have felt the same, as he didn’t try pulling Inspector away. The fist connected, and Inspector heard a noise like a broken clock chime before losing all consciousness.

\--------------------

_The tinny sound of sultry jazz wafts through on a phonograph. A pair of voluptuous women stand before you. They seem to believe you inquired after a certain service. You give a polite chuckle and say no, you only want to talk. You wish two chairs before your desk, and there they are. That desk is in the way. Perhaps a coffee table would suffice. That’s better. You procure your tea set and as you have the pot pour their cups in midair you offer some assorted candy. What candy? they ask. You smile, amused that you’d forgotten. You wave a hand and the flowers in the vase on the table turn to licorice and sugary strips of pink and yellow…_

Inspector awoke with a splitting headache. A splitting everything-ache, really. He also found it somewhat difficult to breathe. He looked down, and saw that he was tightly bound to a chair. A look to the side told him Problem Sleuth was in the same scenario, though he hadn’t woken up yet. After searching the almost pitch black expanse beyond the arc of the light bulb right above them, Inspector’s eyes fell upon a tall, emaciated looking man seated in a wooden chair with a machine pistol resting on his lap. His hands were occupied with a cloth doll and a pin, the second of which he was rolling between his fingers pensively. 

“Good evening!” Inspector greeted. The man jumped and almost dropped what he was holding. This was followed by a somewhat self-righteous glare. “Or good day. I must say I’m not sure,” he admitted. “What’s your name?” The man didn’t answer. “Well… I’ll gladly start the introductions if you won’t. I go by Pickle Inspector. I’m a detective, like my friend here. We’ve been investigating some missing person reports for the past few days, and that led us to you.” The man finally looked up. “Missing… persons?” he asked quietly. He had a very soft, tinny tone of voice. Inspector nodded. “Yes! Might I have your name?” The other’s gaze grew downcast. “... it’s Die.”

“Really? So then you all, too, go by monikers.”

“What’s the use of differentiating the two? We become what we call ourselves… names become irrelevant.”

“Ah.” A silence came and went. “If you don’t mind my asking, of what significance is that doll to you?”

Die’s expression grew somewhat belligerent. “Why should I tell you? You’re a detective, isn’t that what you said? You’ll tell countless others…”

“I suppose I would… but, if it bothers you, I promise I won't. Sleuth still isn't awake. It can be between us,” Inspector assured him. Die shifted in his seat, looking conflicted. “Um… no. I can't trust you,” he mumbled. 

“That's all right. Do the others in the mansion know what it does?” Inspector inquired. Die nodded. “We were all given an ability, or a tool.”

“Given by whom?”

“I do not know his name. We don't like to speak of him.”

“I see. Who are your friends in this mansion? I suppose there are fifteen of you, if your hats represent billiards.”

Die averted his gaze. “I don't really talk to anyone. There's just one, and he's only a sounding board. I think everyone uses him as such.”

“Why?”

“… His ability.” He was still skirting around more specific answers. Not that Inspector minded; he was simply enjoying the strange and awkward exchange they were having. Sleuth started to shift in his restraints, just beginning to wake up. 

“Shit… where are we?” he grumbled. “Kidnapped, I believe,” replied Inspector. Sleuth sighed. “Well, don’t that beat all. And I guess this is our guard?” he asked, looking Die up and down. Suddenly he stopped. “Huh. Your face looks familiar. What did you say your name was?” 

“I didn’t,” Die replied shortly, casting a meaningful glance at Inspector. Sleuth shrugged. “Whatever. What’s the time?”

“...Almost noon, I believe.”

“Explains why I’m so hungry. Guess we were out a while. ...Jeez, these ropes are tight. Who’s the resident boy scout in this joint?” he quipped. “No one. And of course they’re tight. That’s the point,” grumbled Die, refusing to look up. Sleuth rolled his eyes. “Well, you think you could loosen ‘em just a little? Circulation’s damn near shot.”

“And why would I do that? I trust you less than him,” Die retorted, hitching a thumb at Inspector.

“Eh, no worries. I figured it out.” Sleuth jumped up from the chair, revealing his untied hands. Die leapt up instinctively, the machine pistol falling off of the chair. Sleuth slammed into him, and grabbed the gun. He aimed at their petrified guard, who was now on the ground. “You squeal, I shoot,” he said, smirking. Die snarled, taking the maroon pin out of his hat and sticking it into his doll. This action unexpectedly caused him to disappear in a bright aura of green energy, leaving Sleuth pointing a gun at nothing.

“Well… that was weird. But convenient! Here, I’ll cut your bonds.” He ran around to the back of the chair and sawed at Inspector’s restraints with a knife until they came off. “Good job stalling,” he said, standing up. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have given that poor man a heart attack…”

“Really? He’s with the enemy. Besides, I wasn’t _really_ gonna shoot him -”

“Hey! They’re escaping!” A man in an orange hat had crept down the stairs and spotted Sleuth and Inspector’s getaway. Sleuth swiftly picked the gun back up and fired, catching him in the shoulder. Now that he was distracted, Sleuth and Inspector ran up the stairs and out of the room.

“Do I spy an itchy trigger finger?” Inspector quipped. “Shut up. We need to get our stuff,” said Sleuth. 

“Are you mad? We don’t even know where we are in this place. Besides, it’s highly likely that the residents here far outnumber us. We need to call Ace for backup,” Inspector insisted. 

“How are we gonna do that? There aren’t any phones -”

“There’s a landline right on that desk,” Inspector pointed out, gesturing to a buffet in the hallway to their left. Inspector started dialing, and Sleuth kept watch. Ace picked up on the fourth ring, and sounded very tired. 

“Ace Dick, who’s calling?”

“Ace, it’s Pickle Inspector -”

“Holy shit!” he cried. “Where in the hell have you jerk-offs been?! My phone’s been ringin’ off the goddamned hook for _days_! Not to mention yours!”

“...Days?” Inspector asked hesitantly. He heard another phone ringing in the background on the other end. “Yeah! _Days!_ You haven’t shown your mugs around this office all goddamn _week!_ ” he affirmed loudly. 

“I don’t -”

“Shit. Hold on, I’ve got another call.” The line was cut. Inspector stood in silence. “Sleuth, he said we haven’t been there for a week,” he muttered. Sleuth turned in confusion. “The hell? We couldn’t have been out for that long.”

Ace came back on. “Right. That was the police. They’re in hot pursuit of the Midnight Crew, who’re goin’ God knows where. This sounds like somethin’ big, so get your asses out of whatever cesspool you’ve been in for the past _seven days!_ ”

“Wait! Ace! We’re trapped in a mansion, and -” Inspector became distracted by the faint sound of police sirens. “Where did you say the police are?”

“Almost outside the first Quarter -”

“That’s where we are! Get over here, quick! We need your help!”

“Might wanna wrap up. Some guys are coming this way… oh, and fast,” Sleuth reported. “Just help us out here! We have a large gang to deal with, and we can’t take them ourselves,” insisted Inspector. 

“Shit, now I have to deal with the Crew and another gang? The things I do for you assholes…” On that note he hung up. As soon as Inspector put down the phone Sleuth grabbed his arm and pulled him along down a hallway, shooting behind him as they went. “What’d he say?” Sleuth shouted.

“The Crew is coming here! Why is the Crew coming here?!” Inspector cried.

“From the looks of it, we’re dealing with a gang at least parallel to them. They’ve got the stupid game motif and everything. If I were to guess, I’d say we’re in for a turf war.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to say it aloud…” moaned Inspector, certain that for the first time in his career he was finally in too deep.


	4. Moderately Friendly Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some awkward lame-os faff around in a mansion

Ace Dick was driving above the speed limit. The connotations of this action hadn't crossed his mind since… well, never, but he hadn't experienced its consequences for some time. The police valued the neutral assistance he provided, since dozens of protocols hindered them from putting a real dent in the city’s crime, and they couldn't afford to have him off the streets. He was, as his business cards claimed, their ace in the hole. Problem Sleuth wrote that one. Ace supposed that his speeding even at this hour probably wasn't safe, but then again that's how he and his wife met. The city’s lights streaked past Ace’s window panes as he rushed to the scene outside of town, still pissed off at his coworkers for not showing up at work. He intended to interrogate them on the matter, after spewing more profanities at them of course. This week had been the most soul-crushing of his life. 

The stout detective reached the edge of town in a timely manner, taking his first look at the green mansion Inspector had been going on about. Ace made a face; it was just as ugly as he imagined, though he didn't imagine much. That was Inspector’s job. After parking his jalopy, Ace approached the crowd of police cars surrounding the mansion. The chief noticed his presence, and ushered him over. 

“Ace! Thank goodness you've made it. We didn't realize what we were up against -”

“Yeah, yeah. Two gangs, right?” Ace interrupted. 

“Why, yes. How did you guess?” asked the chief. Ace wasn't the type to put two and two together. “I talked to Sleuth and Inspector before I left the office. They're in the building.”

“What? How long have they been in there?”

“Apparently the whole damn week,” Ace groaned. “Where's the Crew?”

“They had already entered the mansion when we caught up. We don't know where they put their car, but that's not our concern right now. The mansion’s color scheme leads us to believe that this is the base of operations for… the unknowns,” the chief said worriedly. “The unknowns” was the stupid moniker imposed by the public upon the group of mobsters in green suits that seemed to possess some strange abilities. They had been popping up more and more in reports as of late, and no one really knew how to deal with them. Hence the uncreative name of “unknowns.” Though Ace wasn't going to act like he could think of something better. He had a job to do. 

“Looks like the door’s down,” he remarked. “You guys goin’ in or what?”

“We wanted to wait for you…”

“Ugh. I'm not the goddamned chosen one, you know. Buncha pansies, the lotta ya,” Ace rambled, rolling his eyes. Nevertheless, he got his Tommy gun out of his trunk and started towards the mansion with a small police squad in tow. 

Ace whistled long once they crossed the threshold. “What the hell happened here?” he muttered. They were in a tall foyer with tens of clocks choking up its walls, most of those clocks being completely smashed in. In one corner of the room there was even a pile of the things, which was currently on fire. They could hear gunshots elsewhere, probably coming from where the Crew was. At the end of the room were two staircases on either side leading to the next floor, and between them was a huge pair of double doors. They had a lot of options. 

“Okay, we’ll go in groups. You guys go up the right, and you go up the left. I’ll go with Dick through the doors,” ordered the chief. The group nodded and went their separate ways. 

“Do you think the two of us is enough?” the chief asked Ace as they started down a hallway. Ace shrugged. “I’ve got a huge gun, and you’ve got… I don’t know what, a stupid pistol? We’re fine. ‘Sides, this was your idea. You coulda brought more guys with us.”

“...I want to save my forces. In case the ones we brought in, you know… die.”

\--------------------

It was hopeless. Every timeline was a different moment of the same massacre. Die couldn’t travel his way out of this. He hadn’t had the displeasure of meeting any of the Crew yet, but based on the horror show that had been flashing before his eyes, he certainly didn’t want to. Die supposed he might as well gain intel from other timelines, if there wasn’t anything else to do. He took a maroon-headed pin from his pocket. This one belonged to Crowbar, their de facto leader. If he went, it was only a matter of time for everyone else. He was the only one of them with any leadership skills. 

Die stuck the pin into his doll, and was immediately transported to some room where he was behind a shredded armchair… with Crowbar’s corpse right next to him. Die cringed and tentatively poked his head around the chair, only to immediately duck back behind as a bullet put a hole in his hat. Die took Crowbar’s handgun and stuck his arm out, shooting where he hoped his adversary was. This wouldn’t turn out any worse if he were to actually aim. “Agh!” he cried, yanking his arm back. Whoever he was shooting at had figured out that his arm was in plain sight. Die seethed, and pulled off one arm of his coat to try and staunch the bleeding. He took Crowbar’s coat and wiped at the blood, wishing he knew how to pull out the bullet. At this rate he would… yep. The wound was starting to seal shut. Unless the shot was within six inches of a vital organ, their in-house tailor wasn’t patient about sewing things up. Die jumped as another bullet whizzed past his ear and he noticed the hole in the chair that must have been made by what caused Crowbar’s demise. 

If this timeline was going to be of any use, Die needed to know where he was. This seemed somewhat impossible, as he was stuck behind a chair. He needed a shield… and he had one. Die wasn’t very strong, but he hadn’t any other option. Sticking some emergency pins in his hat, Die hoisted Crowbar’s body so it was slumped over his own, ignoring how macabre that was. To protect his arms from further damage Die grabbed Crowbar by his lapels, and finally emerged from behind the chair. Bullets almost immediately hit his shield, but Die was safe. He took this opportunity to look around him, trying to find something that he could relate to Crowbar when he got around to warning him later. “The parlor… with the sconces,” Die muttered. He wasn’t sure how many parlors with sconces there actually were in the mansion, but that was probably detail enough. 

“Shit!” Die buckled over as another bullet hit his leg. He hadn’t been paying attention, and now he was having trouble keeping balance. Dropping to his knees, Die took a random pin out of his hat and stuck it into the doll in his pocket. Crowbar’s corpse unfortunately came with him, but he hadn’t time to worry about that. His leg was bleeding… oh. He was in the library. And dead in the armchair nearby was one of the only people Die bothered talking to. 

Doze wasn't really a conversationalist. This had pleased Die, since he didn't really like anyone who made his own thoughts feel worthless. It was because of this that Die had come to the library the past few days, where the empty-eyed man was always sitting, or at least seemed to be. Die had since discerned that Doze’s passive manner was more due to his ability, which was the exact opposite of Itchy’s: he was slow. However, he still needed to activate said ability for it to work, meaning that at the end of the day he just preferred to keep quiet. He had never spoken to Die unless he had something to say, and when this was the case he did not waste his listener’s time. Die appreciated this, though their lack of communication formed a disconnect in what could be considered a fondness. Therefore, the sight of Doze with his throat slit open caused Die to tarry a minute. 

Nevertheless, Die rolled up his pant leg to examine the wound, delighted upon finding that the bullet had only grazed him this time. The wound was only now being healed, however, indicating that Die’s original timeline wasn't in the best state. Hastily he yanked out Crowbar and Doze’s pins at the same time, coming back into a library with an alive Doze, and…

“Oh, not them…” Die muttered, wanting to stick the pins back in. In this timeline were the two detectives he was tasked with guarding earlier. He had come in on the shorter annoying one holding a gun to Doze’s forehead as he kept reading while the tall polite one watched with a disconcerted look on his face. At Die’s entry they looked to him.

“Ah! Good to see you again!” said the tall one cheerily. Inspector was his name, Die remembered. He felt an obligation to give some greeting in return, so he just raised his free hand weakly, the pins between his fingers. “Hey, guy,” said the other one, Sleuth. “Is this guy stupid or dead?” he asked, gesturing towards Doze with his gun. “Neither,” retorted Die. “He's slow.”

“That's just another word for stupid.”

“Ugh, no. His power is that he can slow down time. His own time. If he were to speak right now you wouldn’t know what he was saying for minutes,” Die elaborated. Sleuth looked at the slow man again incredulously. “Seriously? That's kind of a shitty power.”

“Don't be rude,” Inspector grumbled. “Just because he's slow doesn't mean he can't hear you.”

“Whatever. So if I shoot him, will the blood come out all slow, like it'll spurt out and stay there in the air awhile?” reasoned Sleuth. Die pulled out his stolen gun. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” he hissed. Inspector stepped between them. “Calm down. Can we not just have armistice, please? I know you favor that route, Sleuth,” he added meaningfully. Sleuth sighed. “Fine. You know the Crew’s here, right?” 

“Oh, yes I do,” answered Die uncomfortably. “All too well.” Inspector seemed to catch his tone, but said nothing. 

“And the police?”

“They haven't proven a threat, if what I've heard is anything to go by.”

“And our other coworker?”

Die groaned. “There's another one of you?”

“Yep. He's the only one who’s been around to deal with you assholes all week. Say, you wouldn't know what happened with us all that time, would you?” asked Sleuth. He was very charismatic. Die didn't want to help them, but Sleuth was very easy to talk to. 

“…No.”

“C’mon, a truce is a truce. Help a guy out,” insisted Sleuth, weaponizing that disarming smile of his. Die was just about to capitulate to Sleuth’s force of personality when he was thankfully interrupted.

“Oh! Hello, I didn’t think so many would be in here.” The man who came in was short, squat, and by the color of his outfit was probably a Crew member. Die recalled overhearing about him from Clover, a friend of Itchy’s, who had been griping that he was “no fun.” Die hadn’t an inkling what that meant, but knowing Clover it probably referred to sexual inclination. Sleuth put his gun into position. “He’s with the Crew!” he projected. The small man threw up his arms. “No, no, I won’t hurt you!” he assured. “Though I’m sure I’m supposed to…” 

His gaze dwindled to a nearby clock. “Ooh! Lovely craftsmanship on this one,” he remarked, running his fingers along the grooves carved around its face. The three exchanged confused glances. Inspector cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking, who are you?” he inquired politely. The man turned quickly. “Right! I didn’t introduce myself. That’s awkward.” He came over, and Sleuth decided to lower his gun since the Crew member didn’t seem keen on using the strange melee weapon he’d brought in at the moment.

“I go by Clubs Deuce,” he said, putting out his hand to Inspector. The latter shook it cordially. “Pickle Inspector,” he replied. Deuce then went around to shake everyone’s hand. Even Doze’s, whose hand Deuce simply took off of his book. Die instinctively drew his hand back when Deuce got to him, feeling strange and suspicious about the idea of shaking a rival’s hand, despite never having met him before. Deuce simply shrugged to this, however, which Die was thankful for. 

“Not that I want you to, but why aren’t you killing us?” Sleuth asked. 

Deuce rolled his eyes. “I dunno. I guess I don’t really know any of you, so it isn’t all that fair if I axe you off for no reason. I mean, I’ve done it enough before, but…” his gaze again dwindled off to the room around him. “Wow,” he said. “You guys have a really nice mansion. Sorry that the guys are messing it all up.” 

“W-why are you in the Crew again?” Die asked timidly.

“I like the other guys. They’re jerks, sure, but they’re really caring if you get to know ‘em. And, you know, if you don’t scoop their heists. Plus, no one else in this stupid town takes me seriously,” Deuce explained.

“Wonder why…” Sleuth muttered sarcastically. Deuce shot him a pouty look. “You want a drubbing from my crook of felony?” he threatened, taking his blunt weapon off his shoulder. Sleuth chuckled. “Nah. I don’t feel like shooting an innocent today.”

“Pshaw. I’m not _that_ innocent. I’ve blown up a lotta -” He was interrupted by the radio on his belt crackling to life. “DD to CD,” a smooth voice came over the line. “We need your assistance on the first floor -”

“Where the hell are you?!” Another voice came through, this one sounding raspy and out of breath. “We’ve been trying to radio you for fifteen goddamned minutes!”

“Oh, are we on a different channel now?” Deuce asked. “I thought we were still on four.”

“Hell! I _explicitly_ stated we’d moved to six right before we went on this goddamned job!”

“I guess I wasn’t paying attention,” Deuce said, shrugging pointlessly. The voice groaned. “Of course you weren’t. Just get your ass over here.” The first voice came back on. “The Felt’s rolled out all of their muscle, so come prepared. They’re growing increasingly difficult to fight.”

“Roger that! CD out.” The radio went off, and Deuce clipped it back to his belt. 

“Welp! Hate to run, but my team needs me. Good luck with, um… whatever you were doing, and again I’m sorry for the mess. Bye!”

“Good to meet you…” Deuce turned back, along with everyone else, to the armchair. Doze had deactivated his power, as indicated by his eyes looking slightly less vacant than usual. He raised a hand in farewell, and Deuce smiled. “So you can talk! Likewise, I guess. ‘Til next time, hopefully.” At that, he skipped out of the room, once again making it clear why no one else took him seriously. 

“That was very rude of you, Die…” Doze muttered. Die started. “What?”

“...You didn’t shake his hand.”

Die pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s with the Crew! Could you blame me for being suspicious?” Doze closed his book and put it on the end table adjacent to the chair. “Golden rule…”

Sleuth blinked. “Wait, so you could have ‘un-slowed’ yourself this whole time?”

“I didn’t register a reason to until the last minute. So no. Thanks for threatening to kill me out of curiosity, though,” he added dryly. Sleuth stumbled over his words in embarrassment, much to the vindictive satisfaction of Die. 

“Did the man on Deuce’s radio call your group ‘The Felt’?” Inspector asked Die. He nodded. “That’s what we’re called. I don’t think the police know it yet. We’ve been rather business-oriented as of late.”

Sleuth rolled his eyes. “Rookie mistake. If you don’t brand yourself right off the bat, the papers will just name you something stupid.”

“Organized crime is a market, is it?” Doze inquired rhetorically before waving a hand. “Don’t answer that. I’m surprised you’re all still in here. It sounds as if all the ‘action’ is downstairs.”

“He’s right. I imagine we’ll find Ace down there too,” Inspector pointed out. His features shifted as he seemed to think of something. “Say, I don’t believe we’re properly introduced,” he said to Doze. “I go by Pickle Inspector, which perhaps you know already.”

“Doze. There isn’t a need for extended introductions, and I don’t like to waste others’ time when I have the choice not to. It’s good to meet you, though.” He got out of the chair and glanced askance at Sleuth. “I cannot say the same for your associate.”

Sleuth made a face. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“Don’t bother, I deal with far worse on a normal basis. Let’s move on, shall we?”

 

\---------------------

“How many hallways can a mansion have, anyway?” Clubs Deuce was pretty sure he was lost. Every hallway he went down led to another hallway, and the only thing he was sure of about where he was was that he was on the first floor. It certainly didn’t help his concentration that every wall was graced with beautifully constructed timepieces. If only his boss didn’t want to smash the things.

“Ah! I hear a ruckus,” Deuce stated to himself as a crash was heard up ahead of him. “I must be getting close… oh!” He caught an eye-full of a picture on a buffet with, it seemed like, every member of the Felt in it. “Lovely,” remarked Deuce, taking the picture out of the frame. “Slick will surely find a use for this.” Suddenly, his two-way radio came on again. 

“Deuce, did you not change your radio channel?” Droog asked. Deuce snapped his fingers in realization. “Gosh, I’d forgotten! Thanks for reminding me.”

“It wasn’t a - never mind. The police have caught on to where we are. I don’t know how this will play out once they arrive. Either way, we’ll need a weapon with a wide radius.”

“Well, you can count on me for that! It’s just that I’m kinda lost - ow!” Deuce was cut off by a sudden pain in his jaw, which felt eerily like he just got punched in the face. “That was weird…”

“What was weird?”

“It feels like I was just… oh. I think Trace found me.”

“What?! Why?”

“Why would I know? Maybe he’s just - ah!” Seemingly nothing tripped Deuce up and he fell to the floor. “I think he’s just messing with me,” he groaned.

“Hmm. Well, try to ignore him, or at the most try to lose him. We’ll make more noise so you can find us. And change your channel, before I use your own crook to knock you senseless.” On that note, the radio went silent. Deuce scoffed. “Hmph. Try to lose him. Like that’s possible -” His soliloquy was cut by an invisible smack to the back of his head. Deuce whipped around with his crook and swung at the air behind him, not seeming to connect with anything. He then felt something pinch at his earlobes, and swung around even faster, this time seeing a flash of red and the ghostly figure of a man with an underbite reeling in pain. Deuce swung at the same spot again and again until the figure was on the floor, presumably unconscious. The figure flickered out, and Deuce was once again alone, though now out of breath.

“Huh,” he panted. “Didn’t know you could do that.” He turned his head as he heard glass shattering down the hall. Remembering what Droog said, he started to follow it. What else did Droog say? … Something else. Deuce would worry about it later.

\---------------------

If the Crew was here only to trash the unknowns, Ace really wished they had picked a location besides the latter’s own turf. He got why, infringement and all that, but dealing with some of their muscle was bad enough. Ace was sure they'd eventually be dealing with all of them, even the ones they had yet to strategize around. 

The crashing and gunfire coming from the first-floor ballroom had led Ace and what cops he could find to quite the massacre. The unknowns had used whatever their powers were to create more of themselves, many of whom lay dead on the floor. Three out of the four Crew members were constantly spraying bullets every which way, which naturally didn't seem to faze some of their adversaries. 

Once Ace and the police were finally seen, the fighting slowed until the three groups stood in an impromptu stare-down. Spades Slick was the first to speak. 

“This ain't your business. Get the hell out of here before you hurt yourselves,” he threatened condescendingly. Ace sneered. “What, ya don't think we got the lead to take on the both of you?”

“Why would _you_ think that?” Slick’s right-hand man retorted. “We probably don't have enough lead to take down them alone -” The biggest guy in the room, the one with the unknowns, took this opportunity to knock out one of the Crew members, their own muscle. Only Hearts Boxcars didn't just end up on the floor, he instead appeared to disappear entirely in a flash of green. The remaining Crew whirled around. 

“Where the hell is he?!” Slick shouted. The large man shrugged. “I dunno. Next week? Maybe the week after?” Ace had no idea what he was rambling about, but Diamonds Droog seemed to understand, as he finally showed an expression other than silent loathing. The large man then swung at them, which they swiftly avoided, and the fight started back up again. 

“Dick, maybe this is outside our abilities…” the police chief suggested. Ace scoffed. “The hell kinda police force are you? The kind who lets hack mobsters make them their bitch?” The other cops looked around at each other awkwardly. “I don't keep helping you pansies out just so we can back away from the first shithead who’s just a little tougher than the usual! So quit whining and start shooting!” Despite what Ace considered to be a pretty inspiring speech, the cops still looked to the chief for approval. After a moment of thought he straightened up, and took his pistol from his belt. “He's right,” the chief stated, though he obviously didn't believe what he was saying. “We've got to do our job.” The force of fifteen or so cops reluctantly nodded, pulling out their own pistols in solidarity. Ace ran into the fray without hesitation, and the police followed with just the opposite. 

Some time later, Ace started thinking that maybe it was a bad idea to bring fifteen or so pistols into a battle of heavy duty machine guns. Several of the cops were wounded or dead, and a couple had jumped ship out of the shattered windows. Ace had only made it so long due to his own strength. Slick and Droog were also clearly outnumbered, as numbers eleven through fifteen of the unknowns plus some clones were who they were up against. 

“Ace!” The short detective turned to the sound of his moniker, seeing his associates cowering in a doorway with… some unknowns?

“Get over here!” called Sleuth. “You come over here! I'm going it alone!” Ace insisted. Sleuth rolled his eyes and ran out from the doorway, grabbed Ace by the arm and dragged him back into the doorway. “I had it under control!” Ace snapped. 

“Oh my god, no you didn’t. I don't know what the hell happened before we got here, but that looks like a goddamn _mess_ ,” Sleuth retorted. Ace rolled his eyes. “Whatever. So who’re these assholes?” The two strangers looked both nonplussed and irritated. “We’re in the Felt,” said the one with the green hat. “But, um, we aren't threats as of now.”

“The Felt…” Ace muttered. “So you're undercover as unknowns?” Green-hat looked confused. “What? The Felt is our organization. We’re not undercover as anything.” Ace felt annoyingly foolish. “Oh. The cops and papers call you the unknowns,” he admitted. Sleuth shook his head. “Told ya,” he said to the two. “Branding. It's important.”

“You gonna join me, or is this your weak as hell attempt to stop me from doing my job?” Ace asked. “You can't do your job all that well if you don't know your adversaries enough!” Sleuth reasoned. Ace scoffed. “Ha! You can't use your stupid charm on me, Sleuthy! Now, if you'll excuse me -”

_BOOM!_

The house shook as a large explosive went off in the ballroom. “I suppose Deuce finally found his way…” said the new guy with the blue hat. Ace jumped up anew. “That must've evened the odds!” he cried rushing back out into the war zone of a gang fight. Sleuth followed him, along with everyone else.

\--------------------

“Get back here, you idiot!” Inspector wasn't sure why he thought it was a good idea to follow Sleuth into the fray, since if he had one weak suit it was fisticuffs. Strength in numbers, perhaps. Or, more likely, Sleuth would need help bringing Ace back from the brink of his impulsivity. However, he wasn't sure why Doze and Die were close behind… maybe they really did care for Inspector and his friends’ wellbeing. “Ace! You're being irrational!” Sleuth yelled over the commotion. 

_BOOM!_

Another bomb went off, this time behind Inspector. Behind… “Oh, goodness!” Inspector cried, rushing over to where Doze and Die had been thrown across the room by the blast. Doze wasn't moving, but he didn't seem to be dead, as his person was simply frozen in a position one might be in if an explosion went off in their vicinity. It was more likely he had activated his power out of some sort of instinct. Die, on the other hand, had a nasty gash on his face from the airborne debris. 

“Are you okay?!” Inspector asked frantically, digging in his pockets for a handkerchief. “Yes, yes, we… we have an, um… a skilled doctor on standby…” Die muttered. “I'll be fine.”

“Inspector, we’re going!” Sleuth called. Ace looked none too pleased, but it seemed Sleuth had convinced him to see reason. “Just a moment!” Inspector called. He found a crumpled business card in his pocket and put it into Die’s coat. “I understand if you don't want to, but… if you need someone to talk with, anyone at all… I can always make time,” he said, smiling reassuringly. Die looked confused, then flattered. Inspector hadn't time to analyze this, since Sleuth was probably getting impatient. “I'm coming!” he said, getting up and rushing after his compatriots. 

Minutes later, Sleuth was driving his associates back to Midnight City in Ace’s car. “I still can't believe my car just disappeared,” Inspector griped. “Eh, Felt probably scrapped it for parts,” Ace suggested insensitively, snickering at Inspector’s pouty reaction. “C’mon. With the dough you make, I'm surprised you don't have a backup.” 

“Hmph. I take my money very seriously,” Inspector replied self-righteously. 

“Oh, cry me a river.”

“So, guys,” said Sleuth from the front seat, getting their attention. “Meetup at the office tomorrow morning for information dump, right?”

“Right,” Inspector and Ace confirmed. 

“I wouldn't be surprised if the dump takes up the entire day…” Inspector muttered, staring out at the buildings rushing by, wondering what the last week had wrought.


	5. Poor Parallels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> those time guys sure are annoying

It was nine in the morning. Pale sunlight streamed through the blinds and onto the cheap wood of Sleuth’s desk. Ace had dragged in chairs for him and Inspector to sit on, and Sleuth had finally given in and filled up the nice glass bowl Inspector had given him last Christmas to the brim with candy corn. He plunged his hand into the orange recess and popped a handful of the things in his mouth, relying completely on their sugary sustenance to keep him alive and alert. 

“Right,” he mumbled through the candy. “Who wants to go first?”

“This guy,” Ace interjected, taking a file from under his arm. “I’ve got a week’s worth of information in this baby.” He opened the file to reveal several pictures paperclipped to a handful of police reports and wrinkled sets of handwritten notes, and placed it onto the desk. Sleuth sifted through the pictures. Several of them were of gang members he’d seen in the mansion last night; it was a shame that barely any of them showed a face. Then, for humor’s sake, Sleuth looked at Ace’s handwritten notes. “Eleven: he can walk through fire but also has a fire put-outter thing. Fourteen: has a stupid face and a coin. One: A total asshole (oh right he’s fast too). Seven: He doesn’t do anything cool. … These are professional opinions, I take it?” Sleuth quipped, trying and failing at not losing it. Ace grumbled. “Forgot I took those. No need to be a dick about it. The police reports are just as shitty.” Sleuth took out some of those. 

“Thick-set Caucasian male. Height is perhaps six foot three. Hair is blonde and curly. Seen with several others of the same description, even the same bright-colored garments. Carries small round purple object.” He shuffled further. “Slim caucasian male. Height is perhaps five foot four. Hair is blonde and straight. Seen moving at speeds incomprehensible to the human eye…” Sleuth dropped the papers in surrender and reached for more candy corn. “God, these are even worse,” he groaned. Ace nodded and jabbed a finger at the open file. “That, that shit right there, is what I’ve been dealing with all damn week. I’d take the Crew over these freaks any day.”

“Well, it looks as if they’re doing the same things the Crew would normally do, except with… er, superpowers,” Inspector muttered, looking through the reports himself. Ace rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. Except for that _tiny technicality_ , they’re practically the same damn beast.”

“Okay guys, settle down,” said Sleuth. “We’ve got to pool our resources here. If we put together what we’ve all seen in a timely manner, maybe we can come to an actual conclusion about all this. Capiche?” The two begrudgingly nodded. “Great.” He took a legal pad out from where he had taped it under his desk panelling, as well as a ball-point pen from his coat pocket. 

“Right. From what we know, there’s fifteen of these guys. Because pool.” He numbered every other line one through fifteen. “Let’s start with number one.”

“From Ace’s note, he’s most likely the one we saw on the bank feed last week,” Inspector pointed out. Sleuth nodded his agreement. “Right. And we know that… he’s fast. Somehow.” He jotted down as much. “He’s also a massive _dick!_ ” Ace added meaningfully. Sleuth shrugged; he had room. “Noted. Alright, number two. We’ve got a name for this one.” He wrote “Doze” in parentheses after the number. “And… he’s slow?”

“Yes,” Inspector affirmed. “So like one, but lame,” summed up Ace. Inspector shot a quick glare in his coworker’s general direction. “Three,” Sleuth said shortly.

“I dunno. He and five are just around all the time. They probably do some stupid shit, they’ve been on almost every job, but god if I know what.”

“I’ll just say they’re used often. Four?”

“Ech. Four hit on me,” Ace groaned. The two stared. “What? That’s all I remember. Oh, and the little shit stuck his finger in the muzzle of my gun. I tried to blow his damn hand off, but the thing jammed. Hasn’t worked since.”

 

“Who would be insane enough to do that?” Inspector asked, looking disconcerted. Ace threw up his arms. “I don’t know! Smiled all the while, too. Suggestively, almost. Weirdo.” Sleuth jotted all this down with fascination. “You called him little?”

“Yep. Even shorter than I am,” Ace confirmed. Sleuth added that. Next they jotted down all they knew about Die.

“So… jury’s still out on what the hell that doll does?” Inspector shrugged. “It… transports him somewhere…” So, yes. Seven, as in Ace’s notes, apparently didn’t do anything fancy, though he did seem to favor the crowbar as his weapon of choice. They skipped eight, nine and ten, since those had yet to be revealed. Eleven seemed to transport himself via fire, and twelve maybe had some kind of cloning ability. Thirteen didn’t really do anything, though he hung around twelve for the most part, and Ace said that when he was fighting fourteen, the latter disappeared and four took his place. That was perhaps the most confusing out of them all. Finally, there was fifteen.

“He clocked Boxcars, and Boxcars disappeared. Then when Slick asked him where he went he said something like ‘next week, maybe two.’ He’s probably just an idiot,” Ace recalled. Inspector propped his chin on his hands thoughtfully. “This was the same man who rendered Sleuth and I unconscious. Then we awoke, and it was a week later. Could this one’s power be that he can… punch someone forward in time?” 

“Well, we can’t very well go over and ask him, can we? I trust your judgement, Inspector. We’ll put that down until further notice.” Sleuth scribbled some last thoughts. “There,” he said, putting the pad onto the desk. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Inspector smiled. Ace shrugged. “Whatever. Can we get some damned breakfast already? I hadda skip it at home for this little meeting.” 

“You can. I’ve got work to do,” said Inspector, standing up. “Besides, I’ve already eaten.” Ace rolled his eyes. “Of course ya ate at the damn crack of dawn. How ‘bout you, PS?” Sleuth shook his head. “Not today. I’ve got some thinking to do. I can’t pull conclusions out of a hat like Inspector can. The candy corn will sustain me,” he added half-humorously. Ace scoffed.

“And you say I’m unhealthy…” he muttered. “Well, later.” He left, not bothering to return the chairs, and Inspector followed suit, leaving Sleuth alone with his work. The detective swivelled to face the wall to his left, leaning back to examine the missing persons web that he hadn’t thought about for hours. Well, days, apparently. The more he looked at it, the less sense it made. Why were there so many strings between the pictures? Where did they go? Why the hell did he make a complicated string web? Sleuth sighed and stood up from his chair to examine the web. There were fourteen cases that he had received. Fourteen. “Huh. Coincidence?” he murmured to himself. He scanned what pictures he had received of the victims. One caught his attention; he untacked it. It was a graduation picture full of students in caps and gowns, with one circled in the lower left corner. He had light hair, and didn’t seem to know that the picture was being taken, as the camera had captured his face in an uncertain grimace. This was who Die had reminded Sleuth of. They even stood the same way, with a slight bend in the knees and their arms bent upwards, hands hanging in space. He looked at the label he’d pinned above the picture. The names were eerily similar, too. Die. Dietrich. He pinned the picture back up. 

There was another photo that had been floating around in Sleuth’s head. He found it on the other side; it had very few strings coming from it. It was another school picture, but the man featured in it was old enough to more likely be a teacher. And, in fact, that was what he was. It was the school’s dean that had brought the case to Sleuth in the first place. The teacher didn’t attend work one day, and gave no notice as to why. This roused suspicion quickly, as he was apparently very responsible with regards to his job. His apartment was empty, and his landlord hadn’t seen him come back the previous evening. Based on how this discovery was made, Sleuth had rightly predicted the teacher to not have any family or friends outside of professional acquaintances. In the picture Sleuth received, he had a calm yet determined look about his eyes. He was smiling, but it didn’t look genuine. Like the photographer told him to smile because he wasn’t already. He didn’t look sad or anything, just not like someone inclined towards smiling. Sleuth had thought of this picture when he and Inspector had met Doze the previous night. They both had a matching aloofness about them. But unlike the man in the picture, Doze’s eyes had looked emptier. Less focused. Sleuth couldn't help thinking that if he'd gotten a closer look at the other Felt members, he would see even more resemblances. It didn't seem like a long shot in the slightest. But he didn't like jumping to conclusions; he liked evidence. He'd interviewed the people who had brought him the photos before, but now he had new information. New information meant better questions. And better questions meant better answers. 

\--------------------

“...And Brown-stripe-hat can literally punch people into next week,” Spades Slick grumbled, pacing around the hideout as Droog finalized their report. He was the only one of them with remotely good penmanship. “Ha!” Deuce chuckled from the corner. “That’s pretty clever.” 

“It's maroon,” Droog muttered, clicking the pen tip away. Slick rolled his eyes. “Like I give a shit. Hearts is god knows where, plus we’re without muscle for at least a week thanks to those assholes. Anyone else got anything _useful_ and _important_ to say?” he inquired bitterly. Neither of them answered. “Great. Next order of business-”

“Oh! Oh, I do have something!” Deuce interrupted, jumping out of his chair. Slick turned irritatedly. “What.” He asked flatly. Deuce dug around in his jacket pockets until he fished out a slightly wrinkled piece of paper. “I found this in the mansion. It's some kinda group portrait…”

“Gimme that,” ordered Slick, swiping it from Deuce’s hand. He pored over the picture with hungry eyes, which after a moment widened slightly in surprise. His usual sneer faltered a little. “What is it, Spades?” Droog asked. Slick snapped out of it and effaced himself. “Nothin’. This’ll be of good use to us; some of these assholes we haven’t even seen yet.”

“So, that _was_ useful?” asked Deuce excitedly. Slick sighed. “Yeah. For once. Here.” He handed it to Droog. “Keep it ‘til we need it again.” Droog nodded, looking over the picture. It appeared to be a formal portrait, though apparently there was no restriction on poses. There was an array of different expressions on everyone’s face, ranging from actually smiling to deep-seated apathy. Almost everyone was wearing the usual green suit and colored hat sans a tall, slender lady in the middle who was wearing a black trenchcoat and smoking a cigarette. She was the eight-ball; it figured. Droog neatly folded the photo and slipped it into his pocket. 

Slick had since raided the kitchen cabinet and come back with a small packet of gummy black licorice scottie dogs. He didn’t usually break these out during planning sessions, as Boxcars always ate them when he wasn’t looking. “So for the next week, we’ve gotta plan our heists without brute force in mind. It’ll suck if the Felt show up with their giant as hell tanks, but we’re the Midnight Crew. That shit can’t faze us,” Slick affirmed aggressively. Deuce nodded supportively. Droog was skeptical, but decided to hold comments to the end of their leader’s ramble. Slick shook some of the candy into his mouth and chewed angrily. “As you both might recall, just last week the Felt thought it a great idea to open a casino in the same district as one of ours. No one’s stupid enough to do that. Not in our town. But based on that shit, I’m willing to bet these guys are just a gross, sticky _vat_ of stupid,” he spat. “However. The great thing is. If I’m right, which I know I am, then we can use that sticky stupidity to glue ‘em where they stand.” This poorly constructed metaphor was met with confusion. Slick checked this confusion with his best dagger-stare. “Anyway, what I mean is, we’re gonna topple their shitshow to remind ‘em who’s boss. Flip some tables, shoot up the place from the ceiling to the floor, swipe whatever cash they’ve got, and leave like the goddamned badasses we are. Who’s with me?” It was a rhetorical question. 

“It’s better than ‘let’s get revenge in our enemy’s unfamiliar territory’,” Droog quipped dryly. Slick scrunched up his face in irritation. “Thanks for that really necessary reminder.”

“Just saying, all that table flipping will be rather tedious without someone strong enough to do the flipping,” said Droog, quirking an eyebrow sarcastically. 

“God, I hate you. We’ll be goddamned peachy without Boxcars. If anything, he’d want us to avenge his stupid… time travel neutralization. Also, take note of that word. ‘Avenge.’ You love avenging shit. It’s like, your favorite thing besides pissing me off.”

“It is a close second,” muttered Droog, thinking. This gang had infringed upon their enterprise, then taken their coworker out of commission without breaking a sweat. Those were not things to be taken lightly. And if they chose to tiptoe around simply because Boxcars was absent, their reputation would surely suffer. If anything, it would be building up the Felt in the eyes of the underground. “Fine,” he answered, lighting a cigarette. “But if any number past ten shows up, we abort.”

“Deal. Everyone meet back at eleven for debriefing,” said Slick, turning on his heel towards his room for the day.

“Slick, you’re meeting with me for planning at eight. I don’t want us to fall into a time-wasting dispute later on,” Droog reminded him. Slick only groaned in response. “If you aren’t on time, I’ll wake you up myself.”

“Blackmail! Ugh, fine. Asshole.” On that note, Slick slammed the door to his room behind him, never to be seen again for the entirety of the day. Deuce shrugged. “Just tell me what the plan is. I’ve got your back as best I can. I’m just gonna sleep for a couple hours,” he mumbled, walking off to his room.

“Deuce?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you change your radio channel?”

“Oh! Um, no. I’ll do it later! Please don’t kill me.” Droog pinched the bridge of his nose. “I won’t. Just do it. Right now. In front of me.” Deuce took out his two-way radio. “What station?”

“Six.”

After that was taken care of, Droog stood up and made his way to his own room. He wasn’t planning on staying long either. He was responsible for maintaining their underground casino network, after all, but that didn’t exempt him from having any down time. Droog entered his room, not bothering to turn on the light. It was probably out, anyway. He hung his hat on the rack next to the door frame, kicked off his shoes, and sat on his bed leaning against the wall, staring at his cigarette’s smoke trail in thought. He heard Slick through the wall, banging away on his piano. He was good, but also rather heavy-handed when he played. Droog did recognize the tune, though, and got his saxophone from its stand in the corner to play along. There was a break in the melody as Slick noticed he was playing, and when it came back it was much softer, more even, a shared tune rather than one instrument pushing the other out of the way. This wasn’t an unexpected or unusual development. Usually the whole Crew ended up in these separate-room rhapsodies, and sure enough Deuce’s oboe came in about three-quarters through. It was a nice song. The piano melody, the saxophone supporting it, and the oboe weaving through it all.

All they were missing was a bassline.

\--------------------

Die ran through the mansion halls frantically, still cursing himself for losing track of priorities. He’d gotten so caught up in the raid the previous night, or more specifically the frivolous shenanigans of two-cent detectives, that he hadn’t gone to warn Crowbar about the doomed timeline he’d seen. He hadn’t been transported to another timeline, so his leader wasn’t dead, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dying. Unfortunately, a week’s worth of residence in the Felt Manor wasn’t enough to know its layout. So Die had been hopelessly lost for the past ten minutes. At the end of perhaps the ninth wrong turn Die made, however, he spotted Clover on his way to… somewhere. This was great; if anyone could help Die along, it was Clover. He always seemed to find his way through the maze of hallways perfectly.

“C-Clover! Wait up!” he called, rushing over. The small man turned, smiling upon eye contact. “Oh! Hello, Die. What can I do for you?”

“Um, during the raid last night, I saw a doomed timeline where Crowbar died in a shootout. I was going to warn him, but… I was delayed. He’s not dead in this timeline, obviously, but if he’s in a bad state I want to, um, make sure he’s… um… alright…” Die realized how this sounded. Clover clapped his hands together. “That’s adorable! You really care about him, huh?”

“N-no, I just want to show… human decency….” Clover waved a hand dismissively. “Say no more, it’s between you and him. Expect to be asked about details later, though…”

“Ugh, just… help me find where he is. That is, if you do know,” Die added hastily. “Nah, I dunno. But if you stick with me, I’m sure we’ll run into him sooner or later,” assured Clover. “Trust me.”

“Okay…” mumbled Die, following Clover as he started walking again. “I hope I’m not being a bother…”

“I’ll drop anything in the name of a heartfelt reunion!” chirped Clover. 

“It’s not a… never mind. How are you so sure we’ll find him?” Die questioned. Clover gave him a strange look. “Um, I’m lucky. Duh.”

“Oh. Is that what you do?”

“Yep! It’s really fun, figuring out how far I can take it. So far I’m pretty much invincible! How about you?”

“Hmm?”

“You have that doll. Itchy tried explaining it to me, since he used it ‘on accident’ once, but he isn’t exactly the foremost authority on these sorts of things. Or anything, really,” he giggled.

“Oh, heh. Well, um, I have all the pins that represent us, and if I were to put in, say, your pin, I would transport to a timeline where you’re dead. That’s what I can… do. It isn’t really a power, I suppose.” They walked in heavy silence a moment.

“...Have you put in my pin before?” Clover asked. Die shook his head. “No, I haven’t had a need to. I’ve experimented a little, but I haven’t yet tried every pin. Why do you ask?” He shrugged. “I was just wondering, you know… how I would die. This past week has done a good job of convincing me that I can’t at all, so… Not that I’d want to see it or anything. Though it would be nice to know.”

“It is useful for finding doomed timelines. I suppose this use would yield even greater results for you, since there’s likely very few timelines where you’re dead,” Die theorized thoughtfully. He would have to test that. As they walked by a door that was slightly ajar, he heard a familiar voice coming from it. “Ah!” said Clover. “That’ll be who you’re looking for.” They opened the door a little more, and Die saw Crowbar talking with Fin, another member he had yet to converse with, in perfectly good health. They looked busy; Die felt rude for interrupting. 

“Can I help you, Die?” Crowbar asked, bringing Die back to the present. He averted his eyes, not really knowing how to phrase what he wanted to say. “I… um… just wanted to make sure you’re… stable…”

Crowbar quirked an eyebrow. “The hell do you mean by that?”

 

“Uh… it’s just I, I saw a time where… you, um, didn’t make… and I knew you weren’t dead, but, um… yeah. S-sorry for interrupting,” he muttered, tripping over words. His face was on fire with embarrassment.

“...Still have no idea. But if it has to do with that doomed timeline shit, you already told me about it,” replied Crowbar. Die looked up with interest. “I did?”

“Yeah. Parlor with the sconces, right?” Die nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, that’s the one. I… I know I didn’t tell you though, because I was… caught up in other things.” Crowbar shrugged. “Probably another version of you, then. Is that all?”

“Um… yes. Sorry again, for um… yeah.”

“Don’t mention it.” Die nodded feverishly and rushed back out of the room stiffly, where Clover was waiting outside smiling. “What?!” Die snapped. Clover giggled uncontrollably. “That… was amazing,” he gasped. “You were so flustered!” 

“I was not! I felt intimidated. I wasn’t expecting him to be so… dismissive about the whole thing,” Die mumbled. “You sure you weren't tongue-tied for another reason…?” Clover asked with a wink. Die recoiled in annoyance. “Yes, I'm sure! …Thanks for helping me find him, though.”

“Not a problem! I'm off to play poker with Itchy. Wanna tag along?” he offered. Die shook his head and reached for a pin. “I have, um, timelines to check up on. Plus I wouldn't want to be an unwelcome presence.” He figured that was a nice enough way to say he didn't want to be a third wheel. Clover shrugged. “Suit yourself!” He skipped down the hall, whistling as he went. He seemed so happy. Die supposed he had a reason to be, if what he said about his power was true. He would never be killed. A feeling of envy arose in Die’s throat, along with an odd vindictiveness. It would prove interesting to see where Clover’s pin took him… 

No. The doll could take him to a doomed timeline, or a paradox. Die didn’t want to be involved with that, and he knew for certain that Crowbar wouldn’t be pleased at the prospect of fixing such a mess. Die sighed and started on his way to his room, or at least on his way to trying to find his room. 


	6. Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grown men argue about fashion, droog talks to some random dude, and sleuth roasts the police department.

“All right, here I am,” Slick yawned, coming out of his room just as the clock struck eight. Droog figured he had woken up earlier, but waited to the last minute just to irritate him. That was probably also the reason why Slick hadn't tried to cover up his mess of a bedhead with his hat. Droog chose to ignore these subtle slaps in the face, however, and turned to face the heist-planning/dining table. “I pulled some strings and acquired a layout of the Felt’s casino,” he explained. Slick hastily took a seat and craned over to get a look at the floor plan. “‘ _Calcutta_ ’... Place looks pretty over-the-top. Guess you've gotta take that for granted with these assholes,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. 

The casino had two floors, the second of which seemed to be a invitational pool room, likely for conducting business. Each floor had a bar, though the first-floor one was larger, and said first floor was completely void of any slot machines. This was particularly striking to Droog, as most of the Crew’s casino revenue came from those. “Hmph. Not too interested in appealing to the masses,” Slick muttered, having the same thought. All of the games required some level of skill or at least prior knowledge in order to play. Droog supposed that made sense; the Crew tried to appeal to the widest selection of people, which always seemed like the greatest payout. But then again, the rich and experienced had more money to lose. That kind of planning was, annoyingly, something to admire in a rival. 

“So, how do we topple this shithole?” Slick asked, breaking Droog’s train of thought. He gestured to an entrance next to the bar. “This leads to the maintenance room. Electricity and whatnot. Deuce could get in there, rig some wiring, and cause chaos.” Slick looked absolutely intoxicated as he was no doubt visualizing that scenario. “However,” said Droog sharply. “There will no doubt be Felt members all around. And I'm certain Trace and Fin will be two of them.” Trace and Fin had given them plenty of trouble in the past. It didn't take long to learn what they could do. If they made a hidden base of operations or a stakeout site, it was almost immediately found by Trace. If they had planned a heist, Fin would always be at the target location waiting for them. Their asinine abilities to see past and future trails, respectively, had given the Crew more grief than any of the other Felt members combined. “Well, what do you propose we do about it?” Slick questioned irritatedly. 

“I have a theory that it's harder for them to see into the past or future depending on how far that trail is from the present. If I were to enter the casino, say, a few hours before we execute the plan, I could keep them distracted. You can watch out for any more Felt in the vicinity, and Deuce will find his way to the maintenance room. He can cut the power and we can start setting fires or explosives or whatever you want. All that we need to worry about is not telegraphing ourselves. If they see us coming, we won't accomplish anything. Do you agree with my judgement?” He asked. Slick’s eyes looked over the map as he repeated the plan in his head. “Sure,” he muttered. “Only thing is, how do we get in this joint unnoticed? We’re the goddamned Midnight Crew. Everyone knows who we are.”

“Then we don't enter as the Midnight Crew,” said Droog, lighting a cigarette. “We enter as businessmen. Sure, anyone, especially anyone working at that casino knows who we are. But if we don't look like instant trouble, they won't treat us as such. I do business enough in the hours of the day, and this will appear no different.” 

Slick sneered. “But that’ll look dumb! If we don't assert our authority while lookin’ the part -” Droog stood up, back stiff and straight, silencing his boss. He bent over and blew smoke into his face indifferently. “If you're really concerned about reputation on _that_ level, bring a change of clothes,” he hissed. “If we really do own this town, our actions will do the talking for us.” Slick snarled and stood up himself, trying his best to get in Droog’s face despite being half a foot shorter than him. “What exactly do you mean by that,” he growled. 

“I’m saying you need to realize what matters when you’re talking about power.”

“You think I don't already know?! I'm the most dangerous man in this whole damn _city!_ ” Slick shouted. 

“Who’s concerned with how fashion will affect his reputation.”

“We’re already menacing as hell!”

“Not when our rivals are time-travellers, we’re not. Besides, you just became a hypocrite. If we’re ‘already menacing as hell’, what would wearing the ‘proper outfit’ newly bring to the table?”

“It's the icing on the cake!”

“You're so concerned with appearances.”

“And you're _not?!_ ” shouted Slick. “Mister ‘I've got to have five goddamned suits and ties so I'm never wearing one that isn't dry-cleaned perfectly’ _isn't concerned with appearances?!_ ” Droog jammed the butt of his cigarette into the tabletop. “You are insufferable,” he muttered darkly. 

“Psh. I'm not the bastard who’s too high-and-mighty to lose his temper,” Slick scoffed. “Would you _like_ to see that?” Droog offered, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. Slick put a hand in his jacket pocket casually, and Droog knew what he was reaching for.

“Guys, what stupid thing are you fighting over now?” Unsurprisingly, their argument had awoken Deuce. “Slick is worried our reputation will be ruined if we don't wear what we’d wear as the Midnight Crew,” Droog explained calmly. Slick glared, but said nothing. Deuce scratched his head and yawned. “Won't they know who did it anyway?” he mumbled. “My point exactly,” said Droog. 

“Then I don't get why we've gotta. If anything we’ll be a laughingstock ‘cause it’ll be super noticeable that we’re down a suit.” Slick and Droog looked at each other, each thinking the same thing. If some smartass thought it wise to rag on their missing a member, there’d be hell to pay, and not in a good way. On the list of priorities, sending rivals a message was below defending Boxcars’s honor. They didn't need the extra conflict. 

“Fine,” Slick grumbled begrudgingly. “We’ll dress like basic bitch businessmen.”

“Not all businessmen have to look idiotic, you know,” said Droog. “I'll take a suit of mine to the tailor for you. Deuce, I suppose you can find a suit of your own.”

“Already got one! Just never really have any special occasions,” Deuce said, shrugging. 

“I have a suit, you know,” Slick asserted. Droog narrowed his eyes skeptically. “I've seen your closet. What is in there is moth-eaten or oversized. If you still care about your fashion reputation, you'll trust me to find something more suitable for your intent.”

“Ha! Suitable,” Deuce chuckled, immediately receiving death glares. “Sorry, sorry,” he said hastily, putting up his hands. “Um, when are we meeting here later?”

“Eleven. Though this plan certainly won't go into effect today,” assured Droog. “Thank goodness! I'm still recovering from our last job. But when are we gonna do this?” he asked. 

“Two, three days,” said Droog, receiving non-verbal agreement from Slick on this. “I'm going to try to get more information out of my sources. Unlike the Manor, this is something we can plan around. We have no excuse not to succeed.”

\--------------------

“Five across. Ten letters. ‘Capable of grasping.’”

“Prehensile,” Inspector muttered, not looking up from the sudoku. It was noon, and they had yet to get a job all day. For once it seemed they’d actually finish the puzzles in the newspaper. “Dammit, I knew it,” Sleuth grumbled, writing in the letters. Ace Dick came in, and they both looked up. “Where were you?” asked Sleuth. “It’s been almost three hours.”

“Since I’ve done nothin’ but cover your asses for the past week, I figured I deserved a morning off. Sue me,” he explained gruffly. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got a reason to complain, anyway.” 

“Someone came by asking for you about an hour ago. They’re waiting in your office,” Inspector divulged. Ace raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Someone from the police. They were in uniform.”

“Ugh, shit. Probably the chief. Wish me luck.” Ace could only imagine one reason why the chief would want to see him. He could only hope it didn’t lose him his past exemption from the law. He entered, but rather than the chief there was someone else sitting opposite his desk. A larger man, with a steely look in his eye. He was drinking from a cup of coffee, and turned when Ace entered.

“Good morning,” he said. “Hate to show up unannounced, but we need to talk.” Ace took a seat at the desk. “Who’re you?” he asked.

“Arthur Reginald, Commissioner and chief of the Midnight City police department. It’s my understanding the deputy chief’s been using you under the title of ‘investigator.’” Ace hadn’t realized he’d been working for the deputy chief, but he wasn’t about to get hung up on that detail. “Yep. What’s it to you?”

“Well, I read the report on the last mission they employed you for, and I seem to recall that we’ve got regulations concerning the use of Thompson submachine guns,” he said evenly.

“What,” Ace asked flatly, immediately wondering why the hell the chief (right, _deputy_ chief) put that in the report. “Why would you have rules about that shit when the criminals you’re going after use ‘em like nobody’s business?”

“That’s just it. They shouldn’t have them either.” Reginald leaned in. “They’re against the law to own at all.” _Oh._ Ace had forgotten that, having not been pestered about it for some time. He shuffled through his jacket pockets. “Look, I’ll pay ya not to mention this again…” The chief put up a hand. “No need. I’ve come with a proposition. I’m not some white-collar goody two-shoes who picks the rules over common sense, least not all the time. I’m not gonna pretend like handguns can take down a bunch of hulking time-travellers with miniguns and automatics. So here’s our deal. I’ll let you and my men use whatever means you think necessary to take down these bastards, and after that’s over and done I’ll let you off the hook. But after that, if I’m still seeing you with illegal weapons, it’s open season. Fair enough?” 

Ace did not think that was fair enough. But hey, maybe Reginald would see things his way once they started cooking with gas. “Fine. It’s a deal,” he said begrudgingly. The police chief stood up and drained the last of his coffee. “Glad to hear it. Maybe don’t charge my men into fatal uncertainty next time, either. Your associates were seen with a couple of the unknowns, so you three have probably got more information than us at this point. I’ll be expecting a group debriefing from one of you or your colleagues by tomorrow.”

“Alright, that’s outside the agreement. You’ve gotta pay us for that one. I’ll have Sleuth do it, you can pay him,” argued Ace. Reginald shrugged indifferently. “True. Only your pay’s manifesting in you not going to prison. If your colleagues must be employed, we’ll pay them the usual salary.”

“Good. They call themselves the Felt, by the way,” Ace added. “The unknowns.” Reginald smiled sardonically. “See? Helping already. Until tomorrow, Dick.” He left the room, and Ace didn’t budge himself until he heard the front door of the office open and shut, signalling the commissioner’s exit. 

“Oy,” he groaned as he dragged himself back to the front room where Sleuth and Inspector were still finishing up the puzzles in the paper. “How did it go?” Inspector asked, politely putting the sudoku aside. Ace dropped into one of the cheap wooden chairs. “... Are chiefs and commissioners two separate things?” he inquired flatly. Sleuth poked his head out from behind the crossword. “ _What?_ Of course they’re two different things! The commissioner can’t personally go deal with every damn crime in the city, that’s what deputies are for.” Ace busied himself with getting a cup of coffee. “Just checking,” he muttered.

\--------------------

_Two days until the sting._

Droog had spent all day in his office at one of the Crew’s casinos, meeting and phoning his various correspondents to learn as much as he could about the _Calcutta_ casino. From what he was told, there was rarely a business hour where Trace and/or Fin weren’t on the private second floor. This wasn’t a surprise, but it was helpful to know that there was no need to plan around specific hours. Being one of the most infamous pool players in the underground, it was clear how Droog would distract the two until his compatriots put the plan into motion. All he needed to do was call the casino and set up a meeting. After closing the door to his office to imply the need for privacy, Droog dialed the _Calcutta_ ’s front desk. 

“ _Calcutta_ casino. What can I do for you?” 

“Good afternoon. This is Draco Diamante, primary manager of the Mayonaka Corporation. I’m calling to schedule a private business meeting at the _Calcutta._ ”

“Mayonaka, you said?” Perhaps they didn’t hire a complete ignoramus. “Yes. We also deal in casinos. We have one on the same block as yours, as a matter of fact,” Droog replied evenly. There was a long pause on the other end. “...When would you like the meeting to be, sir?”

“In two days, at 8:00 in the evening.”

“Very good, I’ll… ahem. I’ll alert the manager. Is there anyone specific you need to meet, or -”

“No. Surprise me,” he said with a hint of humor. Droog knew they’d choose who he had in mind. He’d had his correspondents make sure the Felt knew of his prowess in billiards. “Sure, sure, I’m sure the, uh, management will be able to… accommodate you…”

“I don’t doubt it. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Oh, of course, of course! I, uh, hope you’re satisfied.”

“Yes, I would say that I am. Good day.” Droog hung up before the secretary could ramble any more. The meeting had been arranged, and hopefully two and a half hours would give Slick and Deuce enough of a cloak from the trails to get into position and mix in with the countless other trails that would theoretically blanket the first floor. The only unknown variable was how long Droog would actually be able to keep Trace and Fin distracted, but he was confident in his ability to at least give them a run for their money. 

The next order of business was to get one of his suits to the tailor for Slick. Droog would send someone from the corporation to drop off the article in question, but his tailor was usually very interesting to listen to, as he too had connections. He was also a nice break from the eccentricities of the other Crew members. After making sure the assistant manager knew he was leaving for the day, Droog left the building with his briefcase, which carried the crisply pressed suit he’d selected. If there was a thing to appreciate about the location of their casino, it was that it was just a block from the tailor’s.

The bell above the door rang as Droog entered, and the tailor leaned into the doorway behind the desk. “Ah! Diamante,” the tailor exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you for some time.”

“The dry-cleaner’s is all I’ve needed as of late, Hari,” Droog replied cordially. Hari waved a hand. “Ah, well. Should count yourself lucky for that. Been pretty pressed for business recently, too, and I know how you like your suits done fast. Now, what can I do you for?”

Droog put his briefcase onto the desk and opened it towards Hari, allowing him to examine the suit. “I need this tailored for a colleague by tomorrow. You think you can manage that?” Hari took the suit out of the briefcase with his delicate fingers and looked it up and down. “How much do you need it tailored?” he asked. 

“My colleague is about seven inches shorter than me.” 

“Hmm… by tomorrow? I’ve got lots of orders in front of you, Diamante…”

“I’ll pay extra for your trouble,” offered Droog, taking a neatly folded and clipped group of bills from his coat pocket. He really needed a new wallet; he hadn’t purchased one since the last went up in flames. “Oh, alright. Just for you. But speak of this to no one, I’m supposed to be immune to bribery,” Hari warned in a somewhat lighthearted tone. Droog raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. “I’ll take my chances. What is this sudden boom in business you’re getting, anyhow? And I would wager some of these new customers are… important people, shall we say, since you aren’t one to cower from cantankerous everymen when it comes to order punctuality.”

“Sure, sure. Come on back to my workshop, we can kibitz while I work,” he said, beckoning loosely as he turned to head to the back of the shop. It smelled of glue and heat in the back room, but not overwhelmingly so. Droog pulled up a stool and Hari draped the suit over his work table. “I’ve been getting some pretty crazy new regulars lately. Guys like yourself, by the dozen,” he began. “After a while I started to wonder why they were all coming to me. Turns out their usual guy, by the name of ah, Spencer, I think, has been off the map for a couple of weeks.”

“Spencer?” Droog asked.

“Yeah. This guy’s apparently pretty popular with some of the local gangs. Guy like me, you know, the kind of guy that takes a suit full of bullet holes and doesn’t ask questions.”

“I wonder why I’ve never heard of him before,” mused Droog. “Well, rumor had it he was also an illegal sawbones, and a pretty good one, too. Didn’t have a medical license, but the safest place to go for a GSW. If that’s true, then I’d get his laying low. Hell, maybe the reason he up and disappeared is that the police finally came on to him.” Droog nodded thoughtfully. “So all his business is coming to you?”

“Yep. I’m good enough for them, and I guess they found some other doctor to keep their secrets. So, who is this ‘colleague’ the suit’s for, if you don’t mind my asking?” he questioned casually. Droog’s membership in the Midnight Crew was something of an unspoken shared knowledge, so he responded vaguely in kind. “My boss,” he said shortly. Hari turned to look at him. “Jeez. Guess I’d better make no mistakes.”

“I can handle him well enough if that’s the case. But if I didn’t have faith in your ability, I wouldn’t come to you.”

“Well, thanks. Is it a special occasion, or…”

“It’s for business.”

“Ah. He helping out with the casinos?” Droog suppressed a smirk. “You could say that.”

“Heh. Well, grey herringbone’s a good choice. He doesn’t strike me as the kinda guy who’s into flashy things.”

“If there’s anything I’m not, it’s cruel,” replied Droog wryly. He stole a glance at his watch. “I suppose I should leave you to your work. I have much to do before the day is out.” Hari waved a hand. “Say no more. You’re a busy guy, so am I. Come in whenever tomorrow, and I’ll have the suit for you. Can’t make any promises about size, though. Kinda hard to eyeball these things without a model.”

“I’ll work with what I have, then,” said Droog, getting up from the stool and straightening his coat. “It isn’t as if I haven’t before.”

\--------------------

_One day until the sting._

“...And that’s all we know,” Sleuth concluded to his audience of confused policemen. “Any questions?” Several hands went up. “Ah, jeez. Uh, you in the front,” he said, pointing to a stocky woman in the front row.

“What do we do if we run into eight, nine, or ten?” she asked.

“Well, if you learn anything, tell us. Or really tell us anyway. We don’t even know what they look like.”

“No, I mean, we don’t know what they do or how to handle them. What if one of them has some kind of instant-kill power or something?” Everyone shifted uncomfortably at this prospect. Sleuth put on the most reassuring expression he could. “Think about it. One basically has an insta-kill power. By moving so fast, he slows down time for everyone else. Meaning he could slit all of your throats right now and none of you would ever know what happened. Sounds pretty scary, right? But he hasn’t done it yet, either because he hasn’t figured out he can or he just likes using his power to screw around. And as far as we’ve learned, every guy in this group is either a moron or doesn’t care. So I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.” Everyone looked both disturbed and pensive for a few seconds, but then a little more confident, even the woman who originally asked the question. Sleuth smiled. “Glad to help. Next question?” The hands went back up, one flailing frantically and above the others. “You,” said Sleuth. A small, slight man stood up.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe fifteen can hit people backwards in time as well? Perhaps even… further than a single week? What would one do if they were hit into the past?” 

“Hopefully, we’ll never find out,” answered Sleuth. The man gulped and sat back down without another word. “Hey, kid, it was a good question. Really, the way to beat these guys seems to be to stay as far away from them as possible. While still kicking their asses, of course. One more question; we’re running out of time.” He picked the most smart-alec looking one, since he was probably going to indirectly answer more questions than one in that case.

“This is far too little information to have if we’re to go up against such a threat. We haven’t even seen three of them, and we have little to no idea as to what half of them even do. Just as it was when we followed the Midnight Crew into their base of operations, anything we do against them with this amount of information will be a suicide mission.” 

Sleuth cocked an eyebrow exaggeratedly. “Well, how are we gonna learn anything if we refuse to touch these guys with a ten-foot pole? I’m not gonna act like you guys charging at them on their home turf wasn’t a bad decision, but here we are strategizing so the same thing doesn’t happen again. Besides, if we don’t fight them, who will? I was under the impression you guys were police officers.” The policeman looked to his shoes with discretion. “Right. That’ll be all. If any of you still have burning inquiries, ask me later. Thanks for listening, and ah… here’s to getting these guys under lock and key.” Everyone stood up and started off to wherever they needed to be, and Sleuth went over to Commissioner Reginald, Inspector, and Ace, who had been watching from the side.

“That do anything for you?” he asked the chief, who shrugged. “It was serviceable. At least we learned things. You’re one smarmy jackass, though.”

“I can afford to be,” Sleuth replied nonchalantly. At that moment, a trooper walked up to the four of them looking apprehensive. He stopped in front of the Commissioner and did a quick salute. “What do you have that’s so urgent to report?” Reginald asked. 

“Sir. Today, cadets reported seeing Spades Slick in the knife store on 5th,” he stated. “How do you know it was him?” Reginald asked incredulously. The officer looked to the floor. “Two went to investigate, and both of them had to be taken to the hospital for stab wounds.”

“So what you’re saying is two of your men with sidearms couldn’t take down one man with blades?” 

“It was… very sudden, sir. We didn’t think he would attack in broad daylight.” Reginald pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s not a goddamned vampire. Daytime or not, he’s still the most dangerous man in the city. Thanks for the information, though. You’re dismissed.” The officer put his hat back on and left posthaste. Reginald turned back to the detectives. “The Crew never gets new toys unless they’re planning something big. Meaning that we should be ready for anything.”

“Maybe they’re going after the Felt’s base again?” Ace hypothesized. “No, they wouldn’t have enough intel to try that again. I’ll post twice the scanners, and we’ll just have to be on standby.”

“That seems… extemporaneous,” Inspector murmured nervously. Reginald scoffed. “This ain’t your scene, I see. It’s not our job to figure out the past; our lot is making sure things never get to that point in the first place.”


	7. Bloody Green Bricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> red herrings romance and epic billiards oh my

_19:00. Four hours before the sting._

“D… hmm. When you said you had a suit… I suppose I should have seen this coming,” Droog muttered around his cigarette. 

“What?” Deuce asked. “It’ll do, won't it?” Deuce had come right on time, ready to carry out whatever order directed at him, in the most garish pink and orange paisley suit that Droog had ever had the misfortune of beholding. If it weren't so dim in the hideout, he was sure he’d go blind. Droog puffed away, threatening to break his cigarette in two with his stiff jaws. “…I suppose it's too late for an alternative. At the very least, it’ll serve as a distraction,” he muttered, making a mental note to burn the suit as soon as it had been removed from Deuce’s person.

Not that he would bring it up aloud, but Droog was growing impatient as they waited for Slick. He’d been out doing goodness knows what, and per the usual was late to his own meeting. Sure, Droog did the scheduling, but the Crew was still under Slick’s leadership. His presence held at least a ceremonial importance. Droog jammed the soiled cigarette into the clogged ashtray on the table. It had been his third that evening.

Lo and behold, as he struck his fourth, the sound of the manhole cover being heaved aside reached Droog’s ears. He heard feet on the ladder, and familiar profanities as the cover was heaved back into place. 

“Evening, Mr. Pinstripe,” Slick greeted dryly. “Hope I'm not late to the _holy shit._ ” He caught an eyeful of Deuce, and burst out laughing. “ _HA!_ I mean, I didn't believe you'd actually be such a damn hypocrite to call me self-conscious about appearances, but _shit!_ Guess this proves it really isn't a blip on your radar!” Droog tried in vain not to hyperventilate the smoke. “I mean, _come on._ Doesn't that bother you? Just a little bit?”

Deuce shuffled in place awkwardly. “Sorry, boss, I mean, I don't have anything else to wear -”

“Nah, keep that shit on! If it’s got _his_ seal of approval -”

“If there was another option, I would utilize it,” Droog interrupted briskly. “We’re rather low on time.” He took the briefcase off of the table and presented it to Slick. “Put on the suit inside. Three minutes, or I break down the door and force you into it myself.” Slick grabbed the case and rolled his eyes. “Sure, mother.” At the turn of the lock in the door, Droog began watching the clock. 

“Why didja call the meeting so early, anyway? You know that's why he’s so cranky,” Deuce whispered. 

“First of all,” said Droog evenly, not taking his eyes off the clock, “don't whisper. You have no reason to fear his quote-unquote ‘wrath’. Second, the early time is part of the plan. You'll find out fully in… 80 seconds.”

About five seconds later than that time (which was about what Droog expected) Slick came tromping back out in the grey herringbone that Droog had selected. He still looked cranky, but also appeared to be hiding a satisfaction with his attire, having a straighter posture and adjusting the lapels thoughtfully. 

“Does that suffice?” Droog asked. Slick shrugged. “…S’not black…” he muttered grudgingly. That was as close to a “thank you” as Droog was going to get, so he simply beckoned Slick and Deuce to the table, where the _Calcutta_ ’s floor plan still held center stage. 

“Okay. The plan as we discussed it two days ago is the same. I'm going for a ‘business meeting’ on the second floor in an hour, and you both are coming an hour and a half later. However, your whereabouts in between those times are what I propose we change.”

“Why?” asked Slick. Droog narrowed his eyes. “Funny you should ask. It's because of you.”

“The hell did I do?”

“You stabbed a pair of police officers in broad daylight, with witnesses.” 

“…Oh. Well, what does that have to do with it?” Droog pinched the bridge of his nose. “This means the Commissioner knows about it. He's not as dull as the rest of them, and can probably tell we’re about to pull a heist. This is why you wear different clothes when you go out in public.” Slick shrugged. “Usually people are smart enough to leave me alone.”

“… We’re talking about this later. Anyway. Yours and Deuce’s new job is to cause some commotion at the jewelry store on the other side of town. That’ll throw the police off our trail, at least for a while, and after maybe an hour of that you can start on your way to the _Calcutta._ I've already made some connections; decoys will keep up the facade once you take off. Any questions?”

“Yeah. Can we actually steal shit from the jewelry store?” Slick asked. “Something tells me it's all the same to you,” Droog replied dryly. Slick smirked. “Anything else?” Deuce stuck his arm up. “Deuce, you don't need to raise your hand.”

“Are me and Slick taking the Crew car?” he asked excitedly. Slick snickered. Droog jammed his cigarette into the ashtray. 

“No.”

“But how are they gonna believe we mean to rob the jewelry place when we don't take the car?” challenged Deuce. 

“Wouldn't they also believe we mean to escape to another heist when chaos is still inexplicably being wrought upon the first venue?” Droog countered. Deuce thought that over for a second, then went quiet. “And no, I won't be taking the Crew car either. It isn't ideal to raise premature alarm for the sake of proper image,” he said pointedly, looking at Slick, who rolled his eyes in return. “So when do we wreck their shit? There some kinda specific time for that too?”

“No. Once you get there, as long as you mingle into the crowd first, it's your call.”

Slick grinned. Droog hoped his calculations allowed for whatever was behind that expression. 

\-------------------

_19:55. Three hours and five minutes until the sting._

“Scanner 5, reporting a break-in at the jewelry store on 32nd. Crew members sighted. Over.” The Commissioner sharply jammed his thumb onto the button to reply. “Scanner 5, this is the Commissioner. You're sure it's the Crew?”

“This is scanner 5, affirmative. Spades Slick seen breaking a window to enter, over.” The Commissioner grabbed a two-way radio from his desk. “This is the Commissioner. Send four cars to the jewelry on 32nd. Stand by until further instructions.” 

“Yes sir, in progress. Over.” 

“This can't be the ‘something big’ you were talking about,” Sleuth said skeptically. He, Inspector, and Ace had all been waiting patiently (well, maybe not Ace) for instructions and clues from the Commissioner and scanners, respectively. 

“32nd’s a big jewelry store…” Ace muttered, holding his chin in thought. 

“And this is about as big as their heists get. Besides, if they're still without their muscle… this’ll be easier than we thought.” He picked up the two-way radio again. “Send out all but five cars. Order the other squads to enter the jewelry and find the Crew. Aim to arrest. No kills. Over.” He turned to Ace. “You're going with me. This is a golden opportunity to get these bastards in cuffs, and I want to make absolutely certain my boys get the job done.”

“Alright, let’s go,” said Ace, pushing himself off the wall. Reginald turned to Sleuth and Inspector. “You guys stay here and listen to the scanners for any information we need to know. You can reach me over the radio. If you need the other five cars, call them, but you'd better have a damn good reason.”

“Good luck out there,” Inspector murmured. 

“Same to you in here. Keep me posted.” 

\--------------------

_20:00. Three hours until the sting._

The _Calcutta_ was an aesthetically confusing place. To Droog, anyway. It was clear that the Felt had spared no expense in its construction: the ceilings were high and intricate, the floor was a fine sort of carpeting, and the walls were smooth, dark wood rather than your standard drywall. Even the music that permeated the scene even over the cacophony of gambling and drinking was smooth, sophisticated classical melodies that quietly communicated dignity. 

All this, but it was still a casino. There were still colorful roulette wheels, crowded card tables, and drunken fools pushing their checkbooks and car keys into the hands of fate. The bar offered fine, buttery wines and smooth Chartreuse, but its patrons still distractedly clapped their hands on the varnished surfaces, spilling out calls for more shots, not even really appreciating what they were imbibing. Though the furnishings desperately pretended to be dressing a space of unique importance, its atmosphere was no different than any other gambling house that Droog had set foot in. This holier-than-thou mentality behind the design, as well as the failure to establish an atmosphere to match the aesthetic, was bilious to Droog’s sensibilities. 

Some heads had turned at his presence, naturally. Even with a guise of diplomacy, Droog knew he had the tendency to set onlookers on edge. Luckily, most only knew of him and the Crew by word of mouth, and didn't recognize his face. Droog surveyed the floor to make certain that conditions were set. There was a substantial crowd, meaning Slick and Deuce would be able to disappear easily once they arrived. There was the bartender Droog had spoke with about weapons, and there was the door to the fuses and the boiler room. The time was eight on the dot, and the stairs to the second floor were ahead of him. The plan was ready to be put into motion. 

“Good evening, sir. Do you have an appointment?” inquired the man at the bottom of the staircase, taking a shiny black clipboard from under his arm. 

“Yes. Diamante.”

“…Ah, I see you. You’re at table three. Don't worry, they're prominently labeled.” Droog nodded curtly and climbed the staircase. 

The second floor was smaller, and much more respectable than the one below it. There was a small bar, about a dozen pool tables with small tables for drinks besides them, and that was it. The only lights were the ones illuminating the pool tables, and what came through the compassing windows that looked upon the first floor. There were some other Felt members scattered around in the room, all unashamedly dressed as they would be on the darkened streets outside, who eyed Droog as he entered. Some were in other meetings, others were shooting around with each other, and still others were just drinking at the bar. Despite the undesirable selection of people in the room, it was a much quieter space, leaving Droog aesthetically irritated once more. 

He found the proper table easily enough, not just by the number but by who was at it. 

“Evenin’, Mister Diamante,” Trace said cordially. He had a distinct whistling quality to the letter “s” that Droog discerned to be the result of an underbite, based upon the unusual protrusion of the man’s lower jaw. There was another man sitting quietly on a stool at the high table behind Trace, who Droog figured was Fin. He had only seen the two perhaps twice each, as most of the time they were quietly following him and his associates rather than firing at them in plain view. The most he knew was that they were the Felt’s best pool players. 

“Likewise. Trace, isn’t it?” They shook hands, and Droog couldn't help noticing how clammy the other’s palms were. Either he was nervous, or his hands were just naturally that sticky. Droog surreptitiously brushed his hand on his pant leg afterward. “It is. That’s Fin over there. He’ll be sittin’ in.” Perhaps they weren’t as dull as Droog imagined. He had to beat Trace if he was going to get Fin distracted. He was the primary concern. 

“That's quite all right,” Droog replied. “Let's get to business, shall we?”

“Certainly. You'll find a cue on the rack over there.” Droog took a cue, appreciating the quality with which it was made. If Fin was there out of suspicion, that suspicion didn't run all that deep. Droog had been half-expecting to be presented with a cue that was entirely the wrong size and weight for him. 

“May I smoke in here?” he asked. Trace shrugged his sloping shoulders. “I don't see why not.” Droog lit a cigarette as he surveyed the table, where the balls were already racked up. 

“Your break,” said Trace. 

“Eight-ball?”

“Eight-ball.”

\--------------------

_20:15. Two hours and forty-five minutes until the sting._

“Sleuth?”

“Inspector?”

“I had a thought.”

“No, really?”

“Hush.” Inspector cupped his hands around one of the paper cups of coffee he and Sleuth had retrieved to stay awake, and stared into its chocolate-colored depths as if reading tea leaves. “I was looking through newspapers from the week that you and I skipped, so to speak, and one paper spoke of a new casino opening. _Calcutta_ , it was called, if my memory doesn’t betray me.”

“Huh. I didn’t think of catching up like that. What about it?”

“Well, I asked Ace about it, since casinos tend to be a rather dirty racket, and he said that the police have found that it’s controlled by the Felt. They haven’t dared to go near it, being underprepared, but they keep eyes on it.” He began tilting the cup in a circular motion, causing the coffee inside to slosh against the paper sides quietly. “I wanted to see where it was in the city, so I compared the address given by the newspaper with a map of the city, and it happens that the casino is on the same boulevard as _Ante Matter_ , a Crew-owned gambling establishment.”

“Hmm.” Sleuth took his flask from his jacket pocket and took a draft thoughtfully. “That’s definitely a deliberate power play. They’re showing that they’re not afraid to infringe on the Crew’s business, which naturally wouldn’t make the Crew happy…” His eyes lit up. “Ah! You’re saying the Crew would probably wanna topple that pedestal as soon as they’ve got the intel and lead to get the job done! Right?”

“Yes. In fact, that’s what I think they’re going to do tonight.”

“What? But how could they, they’re somewhere robbing a jewelry - _it’s a decoy isn’t it._ ” 

Inspector nodded. “Yes. At least, that’s my perspective on the matter. If they were planning on toppling _Calcutta_ , that would much more accurately fit the scale of heist that the Commissioner was implying earlier. It would also make sense that they would try to distract the police elsewhere before actually striking, since they would have less trouble on their hands.” Sleuth looked pensive, then conflicted. He massaged his left temple with two fingers. 

 

“Look, this all sounds peachy, goddamned brilliant in my opinion, but here’s the thing. The Commissioner is gonna kick us to the curb if we tell everyone to come waltz on over to some corrupt yet passive casino for nothing.”

“Well, that would be the next part of this proposal. If the Crew come to spring their actual attack and are met with several police cars, they might forego the heist altogether. We can take the two-way radio with us to the casino, then call the cars if I turn out to be correct. We’ll still be in contact with Ace and the others, and if nothing happens, we can just come back.”

Sleuth shrugged. “All right, you’ve sold me. But you’d better be right. Ace wouldn’t let us hear the end of it if we just dicked around in a casino for a few hours instead of staying at the station for no good reason.”

“Goodness, don’t pressure me so. But I have a feeling I’m correct.” Inspector stood up and straightened his lapels. “Deducing is my living, after all.”

\--------------------

_21:00. Two hours before the sting._

“Slick, I hear sirens!” Deuce called from the next room over. “I think the police are here!”

“Jeez,” muttered Slick, bashing in another glass display case with his horse hitcher. “They’re even more stupidly justice-hungry than I thought.”

“What was that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Slick called. “Our decoys should be here any minute. Just keep wrecking shit until - “ He heard the front door being kicked down. “Dammit! We blocked that shit with a chair! They must’ve brought that stupid gumshoe with them.”

“What’re we gonna do, Slick?” Deuce asked, running into the room Slick was in. “I could hear their footsteps!”

“You plant some explosives or some shit. I’ll stay here until the last second, so they see me, then run away. They’ll get blown to hell, or at least distracted, and you can just stay off to the side. They’ll miss you in the blast.”

“But Slick, if I rig explosives, the place’ll catch fire, or at least - “

“Since when do you care about property damage?!” Deuce was silent a second, then smiled goofily. “Never.”

“Exactly. Get that shit in place before they find us, alright?” 

“Right-o, boss!” Deuce whispered, digging in his jacket for explosives. “Guess we won’t be in here for much longer anyway.”

Slick waited in full view of the door, horse hitcher in hand. He supposed he was trying to look menacing, but didn’t see how a guy with a melee weapon could be too daunting for a bunch of guys with guns. _But I’m Spades Slick,_ he thought to himself. _I always bring a knife to a gunfight._

A group of police ran and stopped at the doorway, as expected, with that stupid detective and his tommygun. “There!” shouted a broad-shouldered cop who looked like he was of higher rank than the others. Since they’d noticed him, Slick turned and started running, when he suddenly felt a nasty pain in his calf. Other bullets whizzed past him, making him realize what it was. 

“Shit!” he hissed, losing balance and falling. He heard the police running towards him, then a muffled boom as they set off the explosives. The room filled with smoke. “Where is he?!” A voice called out. Slick tried getting himself to his feet, but his hands had also landed on broken glass.

“Boss!” came Deuce’s voice through the smoke. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. Slick sneered at the mere idiocy of the question, but accepted Deuce’s small shoulder. He got to his feet, and the two ran for it, Slick wincing with every step. They burst through the back door, where the people Droog had employed as decoys were just showing up. Slick gave them his best death glare, and him and Deuce started off towards the casino.

“I made sure to use the bombs that would make a lotta smoke,” said Deuce. “What happened? I didn’t see.”

“Bullet grazed my calf. Prob’ly got the muscle. And my hands are cut to hell,” he grumbled, picking out the shards of glass that hadn’t made it out of his skin. “I’ve got band-aids,” Deuce offered. “You don’t wanna have your hands bleeding all over the place while you’re undercover.” He pulled out a box of bandages and passed them to Slick, who stared incredulously. “ _Jesters and Japes pack?_ ” he muttered. Deuce nodded, then made a pouty face. “What? Do all band-aids have to be boring for you?”

“No, but all band-aids have to be dignified!” Slick snapped, but then sighed and opened the box. “Beggars can’t be choosers, as Mr. Mature McPerfect would say.”

“Eh, he wouldn’t go with those either. Probably carries around his own just in case. He’s also gonna pull out your front teeth for ripping up that suit,” Deuce pointed out with a smile. It was always unsettling how he did that. Slick examined the pant leg of his suit, which had suffered collateral damage from the bullet. “Yeah…” he trailed off. “Hell, when he gets a good look at me, he’s prob’ly gonna cry all over the suit first.” Deuce laughed aloud. “That’s totally what’s gonna happen. I’m kinda worried about your leg, though. I don’t have anything besides those band-aids, and it looks like it’s bleeding pretty bad…”

“Hold a second,” said Slick, stopping and undoing his tie. He rolled up his pant leg and tied the tie around the wound. “There,” he said. “That’s gotta do for now.”

“Alright boss,” Deuce shrugged. “I guess it’s gotta.” Slick glared at him. “Look, this is the best I’ve got, okay? So keep your damn mouth shut.”

“Yes, boss.” Slick pretended not to see the smirk that unwittingly accompanied that response.

\--------------------

_21:15. One hour and forty-five minutes until the sting._

“Mister Diamante, we’ve been runnin’ in circles for over an hour now. I’ve been clear with our party’s position on the matter,” said Trace, whose voice had been growing steadily more exasperated. Droog had played him twice thus far, each of them having won one, and each match being incredibly close. Trace had trusted in his billiards skills to throw Droog off, but Droog wasn’t budging. “And my affairs happen to conflict with that position,” he replied, neatly pocketing the three-ball with intentional metaphorical intent. “Your establishment is infringing on my establishment’s revenue.” There was only the eight-ball remaining. Trace had suggested they play so that even after sinking a ball, the turns would go back and forth, to make it more fair. A strange house rule that Droog had been taking full advantage of.

“Top-right corner pocket,” said Trace, aiming his shot. “Maybe you should up your presentation, if you think our joint outclasses yours.” He shot, and missed. His face flinched reflexively in annoyance for the first time that night. Droog lined up his shot. “Personally, I would at least move to another district. A fresh demographic will get you more revenue than setting up in an area with experienced gamblers. Middle-left pocket.” The cue cracked against the ball, and it sank perfectly. Trace’s knuckles turned white as he practically strangled his cue. Fin sighed and stood up. “Let me talk with the man a minute,” he suggested, clapping a hand on the other’s back. Trace started to protest, but then seemed to realize something and nodded, ambling off to the table and taking a seat. 

“Now,” said Fin, bringing another, probably less sweaty cue from the rack. “Let me get this straight.” He racked up the balls. “You just told me that you guys aren’t successful anyway. Your ‘demographic’, as you called it, has gone dry. Tired of the same shlock, as it were. So really, it’s you guys who should be moving.” He poised himself for the break shot, and with a deafening sound he sent the balls flying apart, sinking three in the process. Droog supposed that was meant to intimidate. Unfortunately for Fin, Droog executed break shots like that often for that very purpose. Fin took solids. “Well, yes, but what would that mean for you?” Droog asked. “Your demographic would similarly lose interest, would they not?” He sunk the eleven off of a bank.

“Well, you know what they say.” Fin banked the cueball into the two and four, sinking both of them. “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

“My sentiments precisely. But how has our demographic run dry, then, if that’s the case?” Droog sank another ball. Fin paused and thought a moment. Good. That meant that Droog had successfully gotten them to talk in circles. “You brought up the whole ‘demographic’ nonsense in the first place, Diamante,” Fin said slowly before smugly aiming up another shot, seeming to think he’d gained the upper hand. He shot, and sank two more. Being able to perfectly see the angle at which to shoot was clearly benefiting his success. Droog kept his cool. His ego was getting sore, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t there to win.

“Then why should we move?”

“Hmm?”

“If there’s a sucker born every minute, why should we move?” Droog asked, seeing a good opportunity to get even at last. It wasn’t easy to find good shots when his opponent knew exactly where to hinder him. It was a hard angle, and Fin knew this, but judging by the small flash of doubt that went by Fin’s eyes, Droog knew he could pull it off. “I thought that wasn’t your mentality,” Fin returned, talking right as Droog shot in an attempt to throw him off, which failed as he took the twelve and thirteen out of commission. Fin was slipping, but still had confidence. Droog needed to keep him there. He needed to keep him invested in the game and the “meeting”, but he couldn’t let Fin get cocky. If Fin got cocky, then he would pay less attention to the game and more to what was around him. And if he did that, then he would see things he wouldn’t like.

\--------------------

_22:00. One hour until the sting._

Slick was really tired. If he could actually land a hit on him, he’d stab Droog for not letting him and Deuce take the car and instead making them walk all the way across the city. Oh, well. They had an hour to drink and scope things out before trashing the place. They got in easily enough, and Slick started planning what he was going to destroy and when.

His first thought upon viewing the _Calcutta_ in its entirety was that Droog probably hated the place. If it weren’t for the drunken idiots and bad gambling etiquette, it would be just his posh cup of tea. Slick, of course wanted to torch the place for the opposite reason. Everything in the casino was the epitome of “trying too hard.” The Crew’s casinos weren’t half-assed or undignified, but casinos weren’t sophisticated places. There was no need to dial up the fanciness to eleven. The sooner this building was off the map the better.

“Boss, I’m gonna go talk to the bartenders and find the maintenance room, okay?” Deuce asked. Slick had no idea how he was still so chipper. “Fine by me. Just let me know when you’re about to cut the power. I’ll be near the bar,” he muttered. He needed a drink.

\--------------------

_22:05. Fifty-five minutes until the sting._

“I’ll have a pint of whatever’s your best whiskey,” said Sleuth to the bartender as him and Inspector slid into two open seats at the bar. The bartender quirked an eyebrow but obliged. “We’ve got Irish, is that alright?”

“Sure.”

“What about your friend?” Inspector sat up. “Do you have acerglyn?” he asked.

“...What?”

“It’s a sort of mead - ”

“Ah, yeah. Just a second.” A couple minutes later, the two had their drinks and Sleuth began surveying the floor. He would protest that they didn’t have to sit down and get drinks once they reached the casino, but he knew why they did. There was a reason Inspector kept exotic liquor in his office. “What do you see, Inspector?” he asked.

“Nothing of note. It’s about as incoherent as your usual bar…” Sleuth could tell he was forcing down ten completely different trains of thought. “There are a few who look anxious. One man is… yes, he’s periodically looking over his shoulder towards the staircase to the second floor. He may just be curious as to what’s up there, but based upon his body language, I imagine the action is more likely fueled by paranoia. But there are others besides him who simply look apprehensive.”

“What does that mean?” prompted Sleuth. Inspector took a tentative sip. “Well, if a Crew member has come through here, he did not go by unnoticed. Also, if that is the case, it happened a long time ago.”

“How do you figure that?”

“No one’s talking about it.” Sleuth grunted in acknowledgement of that, casting an arbitrary glance up and down the bar to see if anything was staring them in the face.

“Shit!” he hissed, immediately looking away. “What is it?” his colleague inquired. 

“Spades Slick is sitting three seats down from us.”

\--------------------

_22:15. Forty-five minutes until the sting._

“Chief! We’ve got to get out of the building before it collapses!” Ace heard a policeman call through the smoke.

“It’s been two hours since the place caught fire!” Reginald yelled back. “If this place was going to collapse, we would at least see some kind of warning sign! Keep moving! We’re fine on time!”

“They can’t run that much longer,” Ace grumbled. “We’ve got this joint surrounded, and I shot their bastard leader in the leg.”

“Well, try not to kill them. We’re probably going to need at least one alive for interrogation.”

“Heh,” Ace smirked. “You hate ‘em just as much as I do, huh?”

“I don’t let whatever opinions I’ve got get in the way of my work. I was just thinking in terms of the logical extreme.” 

“Sure. I’ll quote you on that when we actually get one of these guys in a holding cell,” chuckled Ace. 

“If you can actually remember to, seeing how great your memory’s been with laws and such -”

“HA!” Ace shouted, seeing a figure go by. Instinctively he let off a round from his tommygun, this time more accurate than the last. Maybe a little too accurate, as the figure fell over and began leaking an undesirable amount of blood. The Commissioner and Ace ran over, the former already with restraints at the ready. “Medic!” he called, binding the wrists and turning the collapsed person over. An officer came over with a first-aid kit.

“Hold a damned minute,” said Ace once he got a good look at his victim’s face. “That doesn’t look like any of them.” He’d hypothesized that he’d shot down Spades or his right-hand man, based on the build, but the somewhat average face he was looking at bore no resemblance to either. The Commissioner looked like he was realizing the same thing. “Yeah…” The man was full of lead, but he was still alive. “Who are you?” questioned Reginald. 

“N-no one…” he choked out. “I din’t do anything, they… they paid me an’ a couple others to stand in for ‘em… the Crew’s long gone now…” He collapsed in a fit of coughing. The officer with the first-aid was taking off the man’s jacket and frantically trying the staunch the bleeding from the many bullet wounds in his torso and legs. “I’m not sure if we can save him, chief…” he muttered. 

“Take a car and two more officers and get this man to a hospital,” Reginald ordered. More officers were called in and helped carry the man out to one of the cars. Reginald hummed in thought. “So the Crew left a while ago, huh?” 

“That mean they were done here?”

“No, of course not. They hired decoys, meaning they intended to keep us busy. Meaning - “

“We got a call from the other detectives!” cried an officer, running in. “They said to come over to _Calcutta_ casino, across town.”

“The newest one, the one that’s practically confirmed criminally owned?”

“Yes. They said they’re there right now, and that they’ve seen Spades Slick on the premises.”

The Commissioner pinched the bridge of his nose. “... What the hell are they doing at a casino? This had better not be another stupid red herring…”

“Shit,” mumbled Ace. “Inspector must’ve figured it all out.”

“Come again?” prompted Reginald irately.

“Inspector’s a smart one. He might’ve seen this decoy thing before we did, while also finding out where the Crew’s actual target is!” Ace explained.

“And why wouldn’t he tell us this?” Reginald challenged.

“Would you believe it if a quiet, foppish gentleman type called you and said that you’re not actually making any progress, and that the criminal you’re looking for is all the way across town?”

“I guess not. But still, why should we believe them?”

“You remember the puppet-master case?” Ace asked.

“Yeah. Some guy was bribing and manipulating people to do his dirty work, which ended up being some kind of weird occult garbage. But he was a smartass. Any documents we intercepted looked like blank pieces of paper. Only reason we shut him down is we found out his secret: he used white font for his documents. They were coded to hell, too.”

“Right. That was Inspector’s case,” said Ace. “He found the white font and cracked the codes.” Reginald’s eyebrows raised involuntarily. He started out of the room, and Ace followed.

“Everyone look alive and get ready to drive!” Reginald ordered to the force outside. “We’re going to _Calcutta._ ”

\--------------------

_22:45. Fifteen minutes until the sting._

Judging by how long he’d been gone, Deuce had probably gotten distracted or stricken up a conversation with some random patron. Slick would just start wreaking havoc by himself, but he needed the E.T.A. on when the power would be cut. He took an impatient swig of his lager. At least the place had good booze.

“Fine band-aids you have there.” 

Slick clenched his fist so hard he threatened to crush his glass. He knew that voice. He had been praying to all denominations that he wouldn’t hear that voice tonight. “Get out of here before I stab your pretty little gullet,” he muttered darkly, refusing to look to his left. He felt the air on his face grow hot and thick; she was blowing smoke at him.

“Come now, if you’re going to threaten me, at least look me in the eye… Jack.”

Slick swung his body around, grabbed a knife from his jacket, and lunged towards the woman who had sat down next to him. She pushed a hand on his chest, stopping his momentum. “That isn’t the wisest decision - “ she started to quip, but Slick slashed at her arm while her guard was down. She recoiled, but simply pressed her other hand over the wound. Then Slick saw that his knife didn’t have blood on it. No kind of blood he’d ever seen, anyway.

“It’s blue,” he grumbled in confusion. 

“Yes. I’m afraid you can’t harm me anymore,” she said, with an expression indicating that this was something she wasn’t afraid about at all.

“Says who?” asked Slick.

“I’ve become tied to the universe, Spades.”

Slick stared dumbly, not sure whether to believe her or not, then facepalmed. “Shit, I remember. You joined the time travel assholes. Is that the shitty power you got?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s without its uses. No one would dare attack me. They would be putting the universe in jeopardy,” she explained, smirking around that thin cigarette holder that seemed an omnipresent part of her ensemble. Slick narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “You’re just in this to piss me off, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She took a drag and looked out over the crowded floor. God, she had the most rakish jawline. Her hands were so delicate, too; it was difficult to imagine they were capable of clawing someone’s eyes out. And her lips. They were the sort that Slick wanted to lock his own to for hours. He hated her.

“I imagine you’re here on a business venture,” she said conversationally, blowing a smoke ring into the air. “My affairs aren’t your damn business,” Slick hissed, averting his eyes again. She took his chin in her hand and turned it to face her. “I would argue the contrary. Everything is my business…” she murmured in that tranquil yet taunting voice of hers. She drew Slick’s face closer to her own. Slick would make her regret that decision.

Their lips touched, and Slick was pulled into a smoky, cherry-tasting kiss. He hadn’t experienced this sensation for a long time, and never realized how much that disgusting saccharine shred of himself missed it. Then he remembered that the reason he hadn’t experienced it was probably because she was so busy joining rival gangs for the sole reason of infuriating him. So Slick put one of his hands around on the back of her head, almost on her neck, and pulled her closer. She reciprocated this, and soon Slick was in danger of falling off of his stool. But she had her arms around him, coiled just tight enough for him to be uncomfortable, and he weakly pushed his free arm against one of hers in a futile attempt to loosen her grip. It had been so long, but already it felt like they were back to where they had left off.

“Uh… boss?” A voice broke the spell. An undesirable voice. Slick pushed away, almost losing his balance. “Deuce!” he sputtered angrily, wiping her lipstick off of his mouth frantically.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything - “

“Already did. Get to the point.”

“I just wanted to let you know - oh, who’s your lady friend?” he broke off, noticing her apparently for the first time, somehow.

“No one. Just tell me - “

“Spades, won’t you introduce me? I’ve heard of your coworkers, but we’ve never been introduced.” Slick attempted to convey all of the blood-boiling rage he was feeling at that moment with the expression he gave her. “Deuce, this is Sa - “

“Snowman,” she interrupted. “It’s Snowman now. A pleasure to meet you, Clubs, isn’t it?”

“Yep! Pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Snowman,” he replied cheerfully. Spades looked at her quizzically. “Snowman?” he asked.

“Oh yeah! Boss, two minutes to… the thing. Just wanted to give you the heads-up,” Deuce said, smiling reassuringly. Slick rolled his eyes. “Thanks. All I needed to hear.” 

“Great! Good luck!” he chirped, skipping back off into the crowd. Sa - no, _Snowman,_ quirked an eyebrow. “‘The thing?’” she inquired lightly.

“Oh, no. You don’t get to ask questions. Who the hell thought _Snowman_ was a good idea?” he hissed accusingly.

“I did. You can figure out why on your own time.”

“Believe me, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than your shitty code name. At least I’ve got an embarrassing real name to dangle over your head now,” he grumbled, finishing his glass.

“Ha. I’m not nearly as touchy about those sorts of trivial matters as you so amusingly are.” She snuffed out her cigarette on the bar, leaving a mark. “I’ll leave you and your friends to whatever ‘things’ you have planned for tonight. But I’ll come back to you, Spades. You just need to be patient, for once.”

“Pssh. Like I care whether you come back or not…” Slick spat, turning to where she sat, only to find she wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t have time to be shocked and amazed at such a phenomenon; the power would be cut any second. And one it did, he had to think fast. They still needed light to see who they were stabbing, after all, meaning the lights wouldn’t be out for -

Now! The room went black, and Slick heard people shouting in surprise and fear. He grabbed the newly filled glass the bartender had given him seconds ago and smashed it against the bar, preparing to take a lighter to the alcohol. But as he reached in his jacket pocket for his lighter, someone crashed into him, wrapping their arms tightly around his waist and dragging him down. He was being attacked.

\--------------------

 

Droog reacted with lightning reflexes, recalling precisely where Trace and Fin had been when the power had been cut. He swung his cuestick, and heard the satisfying _**crack!**_ of it hitting Trace right in his skull. He swung the cue lower, and heard Trace hit the ground. He planted a foot on what he felt to be the slouched man’s chest as he stabbed his cue backwards, hearing a forced exhalation of breath as he caught Fin in the stomach behind him. The lights started flickering back on, and Droog could finally aim right. He twisted his cue and forced it down towards Trace’s eye. Trace managed to catch the cue just in time, trying to push it away. Fin would be coming at him again. Droog swung the cue out of Trace’s hands and caught him in the temple with the butt of the cue before dropping it and making a break for the bar. Fin was there waiting.

“Gun!” Droog shouted. The bartender tossed him a revolver, too fast for Fin to catch it. Droog caught it, cocked it, and shot it low, right where he knew Fin would duck in anticipation. The broad-shouldered man fell onto the floor, dead.

“You killed him!” Trace yelled. Droog ignored him and went over to the bar, asking the bartender for the bigger guns he had paid the man to smuggle in. “He’s getting a gun, you know,” said the bartender.

“I know,” answered Droog. He quickly kicked over the stool next to him and swung it around to use as a shield. He had figured they kept emergency guns under the tables. The bullets smacked harmlessly into the stool. Droog leapt from behind the stool, revealing his machine gun, and pumped Trace full of lead.

“You can’t kill us for good… we’ll just get better… and when I shoot you dead… you won’t come back…” Trace choked as he coughed up his own blood. Droog left off another round right in Trace’s face as he walked by. “That’s enough of that,” he muttered. There were more Felt members up there, and Droog knew he couldn’t face them by himself. He ran out of the room to the staircase, and slid down the banister, firing his machine gun at nothing in particular. People were already dispersing, but broke up further as a result of this. That was Droog’s intention. This was between the Crew and the Felt alone.

\---------------------

Sleuth had been stabbed, in the dark. In his chest… no. His lung.

The lights had come back on, and he was on the ground, struggling to breathe. Spades Slick was standing over him.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he hissed, weaving his knife between his fingers. Sleuth really wanted to talk, but if just breathing hurt, he didn’t want to try. Instead he opted for the lamest of insults: he stuck out his tongue. Slick scoffed. “Well, you ain’t my problem. Just stay the hell away from me.” As an enforcement of that warning, he kicked Sleuth in the face, causing the detective to roll over, wincing. He heard Slick running away, and saw Inspector’s polished shoes coming over to him.

“Sleuth! You’re bleeding! What happened?!” he cried, fishing a handkerchief from his coat.

“Stabbed me… it got my lung…” Sleuth groaned. Inspector gasped and rolled him over, pressing the handkerchief to his wound. Sleuth winced in pain. “It’s not the damn bleeding! My _lung_ is jacked up!” Inspector recoiled in embarrassment. “Goodness, I’m sorry! I… I don’t know what to do. The police are on their way; you just have to hold out until then, I suppose.”

“You suppose?! Gah…” Sleuth winced again. 

“Please save your breath, Sleuth. Just… I’ll… you can probably hide behind the bar, but I can’t carry you, I’m not strong enough…” 

“Help me up.” Some thirty seconds later, Sleuth was behind the bar. To his and Inspector’s surprise, there were multiple firearms under the counter. “I guess the Crew paid off the staff to get them some lead,” muttered Sleuth. 

“Goodness, there’s a strong scent of alcohol in the air…”

“It’s a bar. What would you expect - “ 

“No, that’s not what I mean… Ah!” The bar flamed up; Slick had probably spilled alcohol all over it to start a fire. Inspector jumped to his feet and began frantically pounding on the glass of a fire extinguisher box on the wall. The glass gave way at the cost of slashing up Inspector’s fist, and he grabbed the extinguisher and sprayed haphazardly on the fire. The majority of it went out, but before it could all be extinguished Inspector dropped the extinguisher. There was a strange wet noise on the other side of the bar.

“The hell was that? … Inspector?” Sleuth’s coworker was holding his bleeding hand and looked off-balance.

“Sleuth… I never told you this, because there was never a time when it needed to be said… I’m anemic.” At that revelation, Inspector fell to his knees and fell over against the wall, unconscious. Sleuth rolled his eyes. This night couldn’t possibly get any worse.

\-------------------

Slick looked over towards the bar, hoping it had started to spread. The alcohol wouldn’t burn forever.

“The hell…” he muttered. The fire had somehow almost extinguished, though it did look to be spreading, but even stranger than that was that the upper half of the Felt member who could travel through fire, Matchsticks, was lying in front of the bar in a pool of blood. Slick couldn’t think of how that happened, but he shrugged it off as luck and went back to trashing the casino as he waited for Felt members to show up. Something whooshed past his ear. Speak of the devil. _Or in this case, a demon. A_ speed _demon._

… Slick was glad he didn’t say that one aloud.

He wasn’t going to get Itchy just by shooting wherever. But he knew no other way. He was lucky Itchy didn’t use his power for anything besides dicking around… _That’s it._

Slick stuck out a leg in front of him and waited. He could still hear the nuisance zipping around him and shouting insults he couldn’t comprehend. Then he heard the most beautiful string of words ever. “Shit shit shIT SHIT _SHIT!_ ” Itchy screamed, each word louder and slower than the last. He didn’t slow down in time, however, and tripped over Slick’s foot. Slick sneered and pressed his foot into the skinny man’s back. He pulled his shiny new knife out of his pocket. The ballistic one. 

“Get the hell out of my town,” he ordered coldly, shooting the blade through Itchy’s neck. He stopped struggling, and died. Slick reached down and yanked the blade back out, wiping the blood on his jacket. “Thanks for testing my knife,” he said to Itchy’s body. After giving the corpse one last kick in the head for good measure, Slick clicked the knife’s blade back onto the hilt and walked away in what he was sure was a badass manner. 

“Slick!” came Droog’s voice. Slick smirked. “Finally joined the party?”

“I’ve been down here. I killed Trace and Fin upstairs. One of them said he’d go get backup, but he disappeared before I could shoot him. Deuce is also placing bombs at strategic locations. Back up probably means muscle. What do you want to do?”

Slick thought a moment. “Wait for muscle to show up, then blow this joint. Literally. As in, blow up the bombs right after we leave.”

“Alright. So we’re just waiting?”

 

“Psh. Knowing these guys, they’ll probably be here any second.” The ground starting shaking. Again, speak of the devil. The far wall splintered and shattered as the big guy, the one who’d taken out Boxcars, entered the room. 

“No,” said Droog. “Abort. That was our deal. Anything higher than ten, we’re done. And this is the logical extreme of that agreement.” Another member came behind the big one. He was much shorter, but just as wide. The Crew hadn't encountered him before. He had the stupidest face; Slick could imagine taking him down no problem. 

“Just let me take a shot at Fatty over there.” Slick raised his ballistic. 

“Slick, don't - “ The blade went flying. The idiot didn't even try to dodge it, and it landed in his shoulder. Then Slick realized why he didn't dodge the knife. Slick felt nauseous, and the world around him began to disappear into bright green.

\--------------------

Droog hadn't time to mourn nor mentally curse Slick. Deuce wasn't a very patient man, which wasn’t a good quality for a demolitions expert. Droog turned and ran, both to escape from adversaries he couldn't defeat and to find his coworker. 

“Droog!” Deuce yelled from the top of the stairs, running down to meet him and predictably tripping over his own feet and falling to the first floor. 

“What have I told you about stairs?” Droog asked evenly. 

“I don't remember!” Deuce exclaimed. “But that's not important! I rigged the bombs to blow in two minutes and - “

“Hush. Don't alert our rivals to their impending demise.”

“Oh yeah. Hey, where's Slick?”

“I'll tell you later. We’re on a time crunch, remember?”

“Right! Let's go!”

\-------------------- 

“…rigged the bombs to blow in two minutes…”

_Shit._ Of course the Midnight Crew couldn't just burn the casino down. Sleuth was growing woozy, and he wasn't the strongest even in the best of circumstances. But there was an exit not twenty feet away, and Inspector was remarkably light for his height. Sleuth looped his arms through Inspector’s, and hoisted him onto his back. His chest was killing him, but he started to drag himself and his coworker along on his knees. 

Sleuth was sweating buckets when he got to the door; the fire Slick had set wasn't doing any favors for the detective’s intact lung. He swung a half-numb arm up to the doorknob and pushed the door away and into the adjacent alleyway. Sleuth lurched forward in a last-ditch effort for escape, bypassing the step down to the pavement and landing on his face. He frantically scrambled away from the door as fast as possible, and then the bombs went off. 

Sleuth was thrown against the wall of the next building, along with Inspector probably, and lost consciousness. 

\--------------------

_The next day._

_“Inspector, the town is drowned in pie filling. And it's all been set ablaze!” cries a small, insignificant townsperson to you in your office. You smile sagely and fly out the window and into the sky, and allow yourself to separate into two entities at different points in time. You open your eyes, and the pie filling has been replaced with delicious cake frosting. The people will never go hungry again, you're sure. And to make sure, you turn the window panes to sugar, the stars to jawbreakers, the streets to red licorice. The people rejoice, and you return to your office. You don't need to look to see the fruits of your labor… you are the fruits of your labor…_

Inspector awoke hurting all over, confused at first as to where he was. The pain in his back then informed him that he had been sleeping in the lobby of their workplace. Inspector sat up, taking off the blanket that he had been provided by whomever, and noticed his hand was completely wrapped in bandages. _Right. I insanely cut open my hand and passed out._ There were also lots of bandages of his faces and arms too, which covered scrapes that Inspector didn't remember receiving. Someone had removed his trench coat and shoes, and Inspector wished that whoever had cared enough to do that would care enough to take him to his own place of residence. 

There was a note on the warped coffee table, in Ace’s big-lettered, scrawling handwriting. Inspector picked it up and read it. 

_PI -_

_Me and Sleuth are at the hospital because of his stupid lung. You were there too, but they got done with you fast and said they needed your room for someone else. So sorry you gotta sleep in the shitty office. If you're gonna go home, don't drive. I dunno why, that's what the doctor said. But you should go home. You and PS went through hell. So quit reading this shit and feel better, ok? Ok._

_\- AD_

Inspector cracked a smile at Ace’s rough sentimentality. It was funny to imagine what he was like with his family. The note also reminded him of Sleuth’s unfortunate injuries. Inspector would go visit him at the hospital when he was able. 

A phone started ringing. Inspector recognized the ring as his. He was certainly not in a professional state at the moment, but per the usual his curiosity and manners consumed him and he briskly entered his office to answer. “Hello?” he asked, immediately clearing his throat afterwards. He was dehydrated. 

“…This is… Pickle Inspector…?”

“This is he. I'm afraid I'm not able to take jobs at this time, but if you would be so kind as to - “

“Um… It's Die.”

Inspector’s eyebrows perked up involuntarily. “Ah! Delighted! What are you calling for?”

“You’re… okay?”

“If you're referring to the heist my colleague and I attempted to foil last night, then yes and no. I'm injured, but I'm alive. Sleuth, on the other hand, has barely made it with a punctured lung.”

“…I see. So you're… preoccupied with that, then… okay. I just wanted to know if… you know. Y-you weren't… yeah. So, I'm… I’m… I’m…” His quiet voice trailed off. Inspector believed he got the gist, though. 

“Well, that's very kind of you. But I can talk, if you like. I was left at the office. If there's anything you need from me, I'll provide it as soon as I'm able.”

“… Well… I s-suppose I… ngh. I want to talk to you. In… in person. At the Manor. Soon.”

Inspector thought a moment. “I may be able to get there Wednesday. Will that do?”

“Wednesday. Wednesday, five in the evening?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“O-okay. This, um… it means… it means a lot… to me…”

“I understand. I'll be there for you. See you then.” Inspector hung up, and almost passed out on his desk. After a moment’s thought he called a cab, then grabbed his coat and left the office, kept awake only by the curiosity his last phone conversation had fostered.


	8. Spirited Cerebrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some delicate men talk about their feelings

“Afternoon, Sleuthy. How's the lung?”

Ace heard Sleuth sigh. “It's amazing how fast lying in a hospital room doing jack shit gets old.”

“Ha! Really, though, any updates?”

“Still gonna be at least three weeks before I'm out of this shithole. And even then, I won't be allowed to do any ‘aggressive physical activity’ for another week.” 

“God. Don't worry, if we manage to find Slick anytime soon, I'll pump ‘im fulla lead just for you.”

“Still missing, is he?”

Ace rolled his eyes. “Yep. But Inspector says he might have found the answer. He's being damned secretive about it, though.”

“Huh. Either it's something shady, or he's not too confident about his idea. Couldn't tell you which. Just let him do his thing.”

“I know. S’just… don't act like he hasn't had some kooky plans.”

“Hey, they've never been wrong.”

Ace sighed. “…Get some rest. I've gotta check if the cops need me in their search teams.”

“Alright. Back to staring at walls. Bye.” Ace hung up and started downing another cup of coffee, out of the large earthenware mug Inspector had given him last holiday season. The guy sure knew what to get for people. 

A knock came at the door. “C’mon in,” said Ace. Inspector entered, looking unusually suspicious. “Hello, Ace. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to an appointment. I don't know when I'll be back, but… I just thought you should know.”

“Where’re you goin’?”

“Pardon, but… that's my business. I'll try to be back before sunset, alright?” Ace quirked an eyebrow. Inspector was never this secretive. But then again, he would never get involved with anything unlawful; he didn't have the stomach. “Alright. Don't be too long. If I get a job, I can't leave the office empty. You know that, right?”

Inspector fixed his eyes upon a cigarette burn in Ace’s desktop. That was a habit of his, focusing on worthless details instead of what was right in front of him. “Yes, Ace. I promise I'll be back. I'll see you this evening.”

Ace heard the front door close, and did nothing but stare into space for a few minutes in thought afterwards. Then he shook his head and opened the fat file the police had dropped off yesterday, the _Calcutta_ report. 

_Unlike Inspector, I can't afford to daydream._

\--------------------

A familiar foreboding feeling arose when Inspector stepped into the front yard of the Felt Manor. Perhaps it was because the mansion looked deceitful, as if despite its faceless appearance there was something, somewhere that was watching his every move. 

Inspector skirted around the mansion anxiously, looking for the cellar doors he and Sleuth had used to break in. He had to assume that that was how Die would let him in, since he certainly couldn't waltz in via the front or back doors. Well, perhaps the back… they really should have organized something more specific. As Inspector was inwardly lamenting both of their inferior social abilities, he heard voices coming from around the house. Apprehensive but curious, Inspector quietly approached the corner of the house to eavesdrop, which was no easy task on the poorly maintained lawn. 

“What are you doing out here?” It was a voice Inspector had never heard. It was dry, and while not malicious it didn't sound very friendly. 

“…Air.” This was one Inspector recognized. It was very quiet, but it was certainly Die’s tone of voice. 

“You could crack open a window inside.”

“Silence, then.”

“…Guess that's understandable. Can't say I like those damned clocks either. But get back inside. No going out except on jobs.”

A disgruntled scoff. “What, is someone going to see me? In the one place where one can’t be seen from any viewpoint?”

“Now you're thinking about it, I can tell.”

“Perhaps I want an unruined space where I can think without feeling claustrophobic after an hour.”

“Think? What do you think about? Whose body you want to see next?”

“…My thoughts aren't your business. But they're certainly not… _that._ ” 

“I really don't give a shit. Just get back inside before I make you.”

“Why? …Are you afraid of him?” Inspector’s mind jumped at the vaguely worded “him.” Probably the one he’d been hesitant to speak about during their last encounter, the one who gave all the Felt their powers.

“No, I just don't want you running off and ratting us out or some shit.”

“You say I'm paranoid…”

“You're always so resentful. You don't work well with anyone, except the slowpoke. And he does jack shit for us as is. You never talk to anyone, or help anyone unless you’re ordered to. So you're not a bad guess for a potential turncoat.”

“So I’m a threat because I find being rendered pointless merely for the benefit of some faceless higher power’s underworld status disconcerting?”

“Complaining isn’t an option. We all agreed to this shit of our own volition.” The unknown voice was sounding weary of the discussion.

“I remember no such thing; I remember wanting a new chance, a new purpose, an altered existence. Not to be destined a forgotten stiff with no hope for a future of my own.”

The door was opened. “That sounds like a big fat pile of not my problem. Look, if you’re going to be a dick about it, stay out here for three minutes, tops. If you’re not inside by then, you get the crowbar.” The door was slammed shut. Inspector dared to put his head around the corner. 

Die was slouched over a metal table on a raised wooden back porch, staring at that white doll he carried with him, which was positioned in front of his face by both of his hands on the tabletop. He was grudgingly muttering something to himself, and Inspector felt rude, since he was undeniably about to frighten the daylights out of the other man. 

Inspector opted for inconspicuously clearing his throat. Die’s head whipped up in surprise. “Who's there?” he hissed, pulling a pin from his pocket. 

“Please, don't be alarmed. It's Pickle Inspector,” the detective replied reassuringly, stepping into view. Die still looked on edge, but Inspector hypothesized that to be a permanent quirk of his expression. “O-oh. Goodness, it's… it’s five, isn't it?”

“Yes, but it's quite alright if now isn't the best time -”

“No, no, come in, I just, um… come in.” Die gestured weakly to a step-up entrance to the porch. “If you're wondering, I did hear the conversation you had with that other person just now,” said Inspector, stepping onto the porch. Die’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. It, um… it’s not a… he's…” Die gave up trying to skirt around the issue. “That was Crowbar. I’ll explain things once we get to my room; I don't really feel safe talking to you just… you know…”

“Out in the open?” suggested Inspector. The other nodded. “That's understandable. Not to offend, but the entire outside of this manor incites quite a number of dastardly scenarios in my mind.”

Die scoffed as he opened the door. “As it should. I certainly don't feel comfortable in or out of this place. Come in, please…”

“What if we run into a professional acquaintance of yours on the way?” asked Inspector as he crossed the threshold. 

“The chance of that is… low. No one knows their way around this haunted death trap... including me. I only discovered this back porch some four days ago. Luckily, however, I...I do know the way to my own room.” Inspector started to follow Die, down tens of winding corridors, through several large ballrooms, and up and down many flights of stairs. “W-well… I thought I knew…” Die muttered, looking embarrassed. 

“Oh my _god._ ” A small, cheerful voice came from behind them. The two turned around, and there was a small man that Inspector hadn't seen before. “Small” was certainly the word to describe him. Inspector, being above the average height, tended to perceive most people around him as short, but this man had to be even shorter than Ace. That comparison got the machinations of Inspector’s mind pumping away, and once he more closely examined the newcomer’s purple hat he could see why: it bore the number four. Four was the one Ace said had flirted with him. 

“Unngh,” Die groaned. “Just my…” he dropped off his sentence with a cringe. 

“Luck?” the new man piped up cheerfully. Die pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let's just… leave… quickly…” he muttered, gesturing for Inspector to follow him. 

“But… but that seems rude…” Inspector protested quietly. The small man caught up with them. “Yes! My thoughts exactly! Die, why don't you introduce me to this… friend of yours?” he asked, punctuating the word “friend” with a suggestive raise of the eyebrows. Die looked seconds away from using his doll. “Clover, this is Pickle Inspector. Inspector, this is Clover,” he droned without enthusiasm. Inspector bent down and shook hands. 

“Kinky,” Clover replied suggestively. Inspector didn't know how to react to that. 

“Well, it’s really a moniker meaning a… a mystery solver, see? You might call a problem a pickle, and I… inspect those pickles.” Clover’s unsettling smile had been growing with every word of that explanation. “Suuuure…” he crooned with a wink. Inspector felt his cheeks get warm. 

“Enough of this,” Die hissed. “We’re mutual acquaintances. Just don't tell anybody, okay? And leave us alone.”

“Really? ‘Cause to me, it seems you're lost. I could help you out…” Clover offered, still smiling. 

“No.” 

“All right, I suppose the rec room company will be treated to a very accurate retelling of your encounter with this fair number…” Die started irately. “You wouldn’t.”

Clover giggled. “Come on, is there anything I wouldn't do when romance is involved?” Inspector understood why Ace had hated this guy. 

“…Fine. Direct us,” Die gave in. Clover pointed down a hall. 

“Go down that hallway until… let's say the second crossing hall. Then go down that hall to the right, and the door’s on… the left. Got that?”

“Yes. Keep your promise or you will find several copies of your corpse on your bedroom floor,” Die threatened. Clover giggled. “How do you know where my room is?”

“I'll get assistance from another version of you. Trust me, I do not take vengeance lightly.” Clover put a hand across his face on the opposite side of his mouth and acted as though he were whispering to Inspector. “Hope you know what you're getting into with this relationship…”

“Get out of here!” hissed Die. Clover giggled again and skipped off down the hall. Die started walking down the hall Clover had pointed to, and Inspector started following him. 

“Pardon, but are we going in the right direction?” he asked. “Clover seemed to be making it up as he went, and… well, I’m not sure we could trust him anyway…”

“He doesn’t know anything about this place. He’s just a really good guesser,” Die answered, sounding loathe to admit this. “If there’s one thing he’s good for, it’s giving directions.”

“Is there a reason for this?”

“Yes. He’s ridiculously, unfairly, and irritatingly lucky. That’s no hyperbole.” They approached a door with a number six in a circle emblazoned on it, and Die pulled out a key. “I told you… that we all received a power or a powerful item. I got the doll… and Clover was gifted virtual invincibility.” He flung the door open to cast a shaft of light into an otherwise pitch-black room. 

“Disarranged” was not the proper word to describe the room, but it certainly wasn’t neat either. There was an air of… Inspector supposed one could call it abandonment. The bed was unmade, but not to the point that he could believe its sleeper had occupied it for hours. The bedside table bore a glass of water, which looked to be left alone for so long that the water inside had begun to evaporate. There was a small stack of books on top of the dresser against the left wall, many of which had bookmarks, but only a couple had been read past the halfway point. It was a scene rife with intent but deficient in commitment. Die locked the door behind them, plunging the room back into darkness.

“Sorry, just… give me a minute…” he muttered, and seconds later the room was dimly illuminated by the lamp by the bed. “Is that all right?”

“It’ll do perfectly,” Inspector assured him. Die caught him staring at the books. “Those are from the library. Most of them are recommendations from Doze. I try to read them as often as I can, but… I just… d-don’t find the time, I suppose.” Inspector could tell this was an uncomfortable topic. “Well, you certainly didn’t invite me over here to give me a tour of your room,” he prompted. 

“Oh, no, of c-course not. I asked you to come because… well… you did hear my conversation with Crowbar, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes!” Inspector exclaimed. “I have a few questions about that, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. We can… um, sit down if you like…” They sat on the floor and Inspector began his queries. “I’m assuming this ‘Crowbar’ is some sort of leader figure?” he guessed. Die nodded. “Second-in-command. Smart, but cocky to a fault. I’m sure he’s also bitter over his cut of the deal.”

“What does that mean?”

“He doesn’t have a power. Or even a powerful item, at least, not in the way one would think about it. His crowbar is special, but all it can do is negate paradoxes and other manufactured effects to a timeline. Useful as a leader of time-travellers, but how might one make use of such a power against adversaries?”

“I see,” said Inspector thoughtfully. “So who’s the first-in-command?” Die looked hesitant. “...Him.”

“Of course. Crowbar seemed to think that everyone was… inducted, as it were, of their own volition,” Inspector recalled. Die sighed. “Yes, everyone seems to be in belief of that scenario. But they’re all just too… _stupid_ to recognize what they’ve done. I was just as inane at first, I suppose.” There was a mixture of resentment and envy underlying that statement. “What have they done?” asked Inspector. Die’s face scrunched up as he formed the words necessary to explain. “When time travel is involved in… anything, really, it’s… quite easy to ruin things, especially if you’re a crucial piece of the timeline. Paradoxes are easy to make, futures are easily doomed. The Butterfly Effect comes to mind.” Inspector nodded along, putting together what Die was building up to based on the conversation he’d overheard. “But if… the said time traveller… isn’t important enough to cause too many temporal catastrophes, their powers are more easily exploited to their full potential. So what our superior did is… disconnect us from time. Make casualty react in such a way that we… can’t affect anything. Anything unnatural, anyhow. We can carry out jobs, steal things, and assist in making our organization successful. But we can’t change anything, we can’t leave this property, we can’t kill anyone… unless he dictates it.” Die’s thin, waxen fingers had been curling tighter and tighter around his doll as he spoke, and his slight shoulders had grown very tense. It was the same strained posture Inspector had become acquainted with when, years ago, he first imagined the vastness of the world, of the cosmos, and wondered if a starry-eyed dreamer such as himself even had a place in that grand, unending machine. But then Inspector realized that this wasn’t the same thing; if anything, it was the opposite. Die had a place, a clear position, an empty gap amongst the cogs and wheels reserved just for him. But there was no other place he could choose. And the machine he was in was old, overwound, and only used out of novelty.

“I...I’m terribly sorry,” Inspector finally said. “I can’t possibly imagine how that feels.” Die wiped at the beginnings of tears. “I s-suppose it’s not… all bad. If you and your… your friend are investigating m-missing persons, since… around the time we were brought here, that must mean we still have weight, right?”

Inspector snapped his fingers in realization, making Die jump. “I think I know how I can help you!” he exclaimed. Die looked up with tentative interest. “H-help?”

“Yes, with this whole situation! Sleuth has to be looking for you and your coworkers. Fourteen people abducted around the same time that this mansion allegedly ‘appeared’... it would be a monstrous coincidence if these things had nothing in common. I can take over Sleuth’s case while he’s in the hospital. You can provide me with whatever information you think useful, over the phone or otherwise. I don’t wish to make promises I can’t keep, but I will stretch my mind to the breaking point if I must to free you from this piteous predicament.” Die had a hand over his mouth, looking as if he wanted to laugh but was unsure of how to go about it. “Y-you make it sound so… melodramatic.”

“Well, it is! You’re practically in stasis, unable to move until someone lets you out. I’m sure it riles you as much as it does me, if not more, yes?”

Die downcast his gaze. “I… yes,” he muttered. “It makes me sick to think of it.”

“Then I’m going to do something about it, if you don’t mind.” Inspector stood up, and Die followed suit. “I must be off. There’s much to do, and Ace will brutalize me if I leave the office empty for too long. Someone has to answer the phone.”

“O-of course. I’ll show you the door.”

Somehow, the two made it back to the door in a timely manner. Inspector stepped back off the porch into the dying leaves. “Th-thanks so much for coming, Inspector…” Die mumbled nervously, weakly waving his hand farewell. Inspector paused a moment. “You know, I’ve been thinking of what you said when I asked your name, when you were guarding Sleuth and I. You said that we become what we call ourselves, thus rendering true names meaningless. If I’m going to help you take back your true self… then knowing each other’s names would be something of a positive, wouldn’t you agree?” Die downcast his gaze. “I don’t… like my name. It’s another entity by this point, a life I’d like to forget I ever led.”

“Then why not give yourself a new name? Or alter your old one, so it no longer truly exists?” Inspector suggested. Die furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully. “...Okay. My name is Die. Spelt the same as my moniker, but…”

“Pronounced ‘dee’?” Inspector finished. Die nodded. “Perfect. Now, I must ask you never to use my true name before others. Knowledge is power in the underworld, and one slip of the tongue could lead to loved ones dead.” Die nodded again in understanding. “Thank you. I trust you. My name is Isaac.” He put out a hand, and Die confusedly shook it. “A completely separate person from the famed detective Pickle Inspector, you understand.”

“I do,” said Die with the utmost seriousness. “Th-thank you for your time, Isaac.” Inspector smiled cordially and finally turned to leave, with one last tip of his bowler hat for manners’ sake. “The pleasure was mine.”

\--------------------

Droog could probably win a record for “highest amount of concealed sighs.” This was true any day of the week, but tonight the exhalation had reached its peak. Usually, Boxcars did the cooking on the rare occasion that the Crew couldn’t eat out. Now was certainly one of those occasions, but of course their multi-faceted muscle was absent. So it was Droog who undertook the burden of cooking pasta for Deuce and himself. He admittedly didn’t know if Deuce was a better or worse cook than himself, but he did know that the disarranged demolitionist would no doubt make more of a mess. And of the things Droog could never abide under any circumstances, messes were certainly in the top five. 

“Why can’t we go out again?” Deuce’s voice called from the other room. Droog sighed, this time audibly. “We need to lay low until we work things out. Such as how we’re going to maintain our reputation without the city knowing that our leader is lost in time.” Just that last phrase was enough to make Droog roll his eyes. Slick was a good leader (most of the time), but when he was an idiot, he went all the way. Droog fished a noodle out of the pot and threw it against the wall, watching it stick. It was satisfying.

A couple minutes later, Droog and Deuce were eating at the table in silence. The noodles were too firm. Droog was many things, but he wasn’t a cook. In a twisted way, he was glad Slick wasn’t there to sample it. Finally Deuce spoke. “What’re we gonna do now that Slick’s gone?”

“We don’t know that he’s gone for good. Once we gather enough information - “

This planning was interrupted by a horrible noise. It was coming from the corner of the room, and was getting louder by the second. It was a sound that one more inclined towards hyperbole might refer to as “ear-bleeding.” A dark, matter-less hole opened up in space, and out of it came not only Spades Slick, but also Boxcars. Deuce excitedly jumped out of his seat. “Boss! Boxcars!” he cried, running over to greet them. Droog got up slow. They were certainly his compatriots, but there was something very off-putting about them. Both of them appeared to have ash-grey complexions, and Slick was turning a card in his hand that glowed with a strange purple aura. “What happened?” he asked evenly. Slick stopped turning the card, and raised it in front of him. In an instant, it became his cast-iron horse hitcher. Boxcars pulled another card out of his pocket and did the same, this one becoming one of his axes. Deuce stared in hesitant wonder, while Droog waited for an answer to his question. Slick grinned, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth.

“We found ourselves an equalizer.”


	9. Underpromotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the crew dominates and inspector gets hot and bothered

It was on short notice. There was barely an hour in between receiving the order and driving over in the most obvious car imaginable. Itchy didn’t exactly care for the company he’d been thrown in with, either. There was Crowbar at the wheel, because that blowhard had to go on every job, Trace and Fin, who were whispering and snickering about something like they always did, and Matchsticks, who as usual just looked like he was on vacation. Itchy had gathered that these were all the casualties from when the Crew busted their casino (minus Crowbar), because revenge or whatever, but Itchy would let the Crew burn the whole city down if it meant him spending his night faffing around with Clover instead of watching a pair of codependent assholes shoot him patronizing glances over their shoulders for ten minutes.

“‘Eyy,” Itchy lilted, sticking his head in between the two in the seat in front of him. “You guys bondin’ over a different kinda trail up here?” Fin sneered and Trace stuck a revolver in Itchy’s face. He put his hands up, putting on his best shit-eating grin. “Man, no need to get all defensive about it. Hell, just the other day Clover and I - “

“If you finish that sentence, you’re out of the car,” Crowbar intoned drily from the driver’s seat. Itchy shrugged. “Fine by me. I’d prob’ly beat you punks there by an hour at this speed.” Crowbar slammed his foot on the gas, and Itchy flew back into his seat from the acceleration. “You’re just jealous,” he scoffed. “I’m guessin’ you haven’t worked up the nerve to return the feelings of Creepy McCorpses yet - “

“We’re here,” Crowbar stated loudly as he brought the car to a screeching halt. Itchy hopped the door without opening it, snickering. Of all the reasons to love the whole “time mobster” gig, annoying the piss out of his coworkers was up there on the list.

Their job was pretty standard. The Crew was robbing a bank, and they were going to foil the robbery by trashing them and taking the cash for themselves. Pretty standard fare. But the weird thing about it was that apparently, the Crew had no weapons on them. That’s what the Doc had said, anyway. It sounded pretty implausible, but the Doc was eerily good at predicting stuff sometimes. Also they apparently had both their muscle and their leader back, faster than expected too. Itchy guessed the Doc felt the need to knock them off that pedestal. Because he liked being on all the pedestals himself. All of them.

The door was broken down, naturally. Blown up, by the looks of it. Itchy wondered how they could do that with no weapons. But whatever, in they went. The bank had a huge main room, the kind where the individual desks were just staggered a certain distance from each other in rows. The safe room was at the other end of the main aisle down the middle, closed off by a locked room that was of course forced open.

“I'm gonna go ahead,” Itchy whispered. “No,” started Crowbar. “It’s asinine to confront four people one at a - “

But Itchy was already winding up, his superior’s protests becoming slower to his ears. The Crew didn't have weapons, and even if they did, Itchy had the drop on them. He started running, deciding to go for the boss’s right-hand man first. Slick might have been Itchy’s killer, but he didn't strike Itchy as the brains of the operation. And if there was one thing Itchy had quickly learned from being in a group of absolute half-wits, it was the necessity of a determined “smart guy.” Itchy grew closer, seeing that he did indeed have no weapons -

Itchy couldn't move. He recalled vaguely seeing Droog’s head turn… and realized he’d let his attention go again. But now his enemy was holding his hand out, like he was ordering Itchy to come no further, except it was working. On closer inspection (Itchy didn't tend to take in details at first), Droog’s hand was enveloped in some strange purple flame. The hand itself was also a weird grey color… as was his face, Itchy realized. 

“Hey, freak. Long time no see,” said Slick, grinning as he observed. He looked just as strange as Droog, so he was one to talk. Itchy could hear his coworkers running over, and chose not to panic just yet. 

“Take care of them, Deuce,” ordered Slick. The small man cheerfully nodded and seemed to fall backwards into his own shadow. Itchy couldn't turn his head to see what happened, but heard gunfire behind him followed by bodies hitting the floor. 

“Now just kill this asshole, and we can blow this joint,” Slick ordered nonchalantly. He grabbed hold of a bag filled with money and before Itchy’s eyes, it became a simple playing card. 

“We could use him,” suggested Droog. “I would wager we can make use of several interrogation tactics to get whatever statistics we desire.”

“…Hmm. Not a bad idea. But if he escapes later, it's on you, alright?”

Droog didn't answer, only curled his fingers inward. Itchy started feeling lightheaded as the pressure around him felt increased. He felt a vessel pop in his nose, then blacked out. 

\--------------------

“Whatcha doin’ looking at Sleuth’s web of madness?” Ace asked, looking in on Inspector, who was scribbling illegible notes with a phone book taking up almost his entire lap. A teacup was sitting half-full on the desk, and contrary to context clues it contained very strong alcohol. There weren't many bits of information to go off of, and Inspector needed to fill in all the gaps he could on his own. 

“I… recently thought up some potential leads, you know… new connections to question any related entities upon,” Inspector answered, cringing inwardly at his anxious esotericism. If someone said the same words to him, he’d immediately think they were lying. He was sure that Ace would have the same reaction, having known his mannerisms for so long, but either that assumption was false or Ace decided not to bring it up. 

“Well, whatever the reason, you look like hell. I'm going out for the night. Go have a few drinks, turn down some broads. You should come along.” 

“Oh! I… I regret to deny the invitation, but… but I'm not the sort to attend those venues, which sell the less - “

“Save it. You're comin’. For someone who's so damn polite _and_ good with deducing, you're pretty quick to assume that every joint I frequent is the cruddiest, lowest dive in the city.” Inspector felt himself blushing with embarrassment. “I mean, I do go to some pretty down-and-dirty holes, but I wouldn't take your fussy ass to any of those. Come on.” Inspector did feel rude for thinking that Ace only went to the least respectable establishments around, and decided that accepting his invitation was the only way to make that up to him. “Sure, just… let me get my coat,” he muttered, getting shakily to his feet. _That's not good, he thought. I don't think one’s supposed to start a night on the town when they're already tipsy…_

\--------------------

The bar they’d driven to was more sophisticated and well-kept than most, but Inspector was still on his toes. He wasn't quite afraid of the city outside his home or office, since his manners usually got him around any trouble, but he was easily disconcerted by any imagery that could feed the negative end of his imagination. Half the bar’s patrons could be dangerous mobsters, for all he knew. They certainly looked the part.

He had ordered the sweetest mead the bar advertised, while Ace asked for the hardest, darkest ale they could conceive. Their tastes were so opposite, Inspector sometimes swore he was unwittingly part of some hackneyed sitcom. The change of scenery did loosen Inspector’s state of mind, and soon he was readily amusing himself with theorizing upon the lives of the strangers filling the dim box of a room. 

“People-watching?” Ace asked, turning in his stool to face the same direction as his coworker. Inspector nodded absentmindedly, just barely understanding what he'd been asked. Ace gestured with his glass to a corner of the room, at a big man with several gold chains around his neck and a girl in each arm. “What can you tell me about him?” Ace asked. This was a game they played sometimes; Ace was informed and Inspector practiced focusing his imagination rather than simply toying with it. 

“A procurer, clearly,” said Inspector. “I can tell, not just from the girls and his wardrobe, but the way he's looking around the room. He only ever watches the girls dancing, and when he moves on to watching someone else, his expression sours, as if what he just saw is not what he's looking for.”

Ace smirked. “Is he good at looking for new girls?” Inspector nodded. “Certainly. He can tell which girls are alone, and which ones have the most to lose.”

“Hmph. By the way he's flaunting his position around, I'm sure he's well-protected. Ain't gonna stop me from watchin’ him, though.” Ace asked for another drink, and in one monstrous gulp had already downed half the glass. “That one was easy. How about that guy?” He pointed his glass like a divining rod towards another man, this one with a slighter frame. He had ginger hair and didn't look so much weak as he did depressed. He was gazing deep into the glass of a bottle of some cheap beer, and as Inspector was observing this a woman offered the man a dance (as evidenced by her holding out her hand), to which he declined. 

“He's gone through some kind of break-up. It doesn't seem to have happened particularly recently, however, since he looks more annoyed with himself than anything else. He hasn't drunk any of the beer he's holding, which implies to me that it isn't a drink he usually indulges in, but rather one his now-lost love preferred. Strange… he almost looks like someone in Sleuth’s web…”

“Should ask him about the case. What about…” Ace looked around, and apparently found the perfect candidate. “Her.”

Inspector followed his glass to a slight-framed, tall young lady, who wore rather frivolous clothes and was hovering delicately at the edge of a group of girls who must have been her friends. She was looking around nervously, and didn't seem to want to be where she was at all. “Sh-she…” Inspector stuttered, unable to collect his thoughts. She met eyes with him. Her eyes were curious, almost welcoming, but had a clear barrier of suspicion at the forefront. Inspector looked away, feeling rude and frankly overheated. Ace leaned in. “Well? What about her?” he prompted. Inspector downed the rest of his glass, and tugged at his collar stiffly. The room seemed to have gotten ten degrees hotter in seconds. Ace grinned, catching on. “Heh. You like her, huh?” One thing that Inspector had long accepted about himself was that he was a terrible liar. “Well, I… yes,” he answered sheepishly. “She's… beautiful.”

“Then go talk to her! Doesn't look like she's got anything better to do.” Inspector felt a catch in his throat. “Oh, no, I… couldn't possibly interfere with such a large group, I… I don't…”

“You baby. You're like… the best gentleman ever. Chicks dig that shit, at least the good ones do. And she looks like quite the catch. Not my type, but definitely yours.” Unfortunately, Ace was right. The woman across the room was everything Inspector wanted and more, at least by the look of her. “No, no, she clearly doesn't want to be here anyway, and… and probably isn't in the mood to talk, least of all with a complete stranger…” he muttered, fixing his gaze on the round glass stains in the bar surface, an over-scrubbed brownish gold mosaic galaxy. 

“Hey, the group’s makin’ their way over here. Lucky you.” Not daring to look up, Inspector nervously listened as the stools next to him creaked under the weight of new occupants. He absentmindedly wondered why no one bothered to grease those old stools, or even replace them. Eventually he recollected himself enough to look up from the tabletop universe, and nearly had a heart attack upon realizing that the girl he’d been looking at was sitting right next to him. 

Now that she was closer, Inspector could more clearly appreciate her mannerisms. She sat in a forward-leaning fashion, but with a straight back, and her sharp elbows rested on the table while her hands naturally folded into each other right under her chin. It was a harmonious arrangement. She looked towards the group mostly, but her eyes periodically darted to all corners of the room, and while she looked relaxed and laughed with her friends, it was clear she was on high alert. She was cautious, but not so much as to be burdensome to others. A perfect balance. 

Inspector realized with crippling embarrassment that he'd been staring at her for some time. He knew this because she’d locked eyes with him a couple times, and by the third she’d noticed that he hadn't gone back to his own devices. 

“Excuse me, sir… are you ogling me?” No beating around the bush. Inspector felt sweat forming on his forehead. “Um… I… I don't mean…”

“He thinks you're hot!” Ace broke in. The woman blushed, and Inspector shot his co-worker a look. “W-well, no, I… I mean yes, but that's… that’s not the proper word… I… goodness.” He took a breath. “I saw you across the room earlier, and… you looked beautiful. Well, you still do, I mean… ah. Where have my manners gone? I'm Isaac. It's my pleasure to meet you. What's your name?” He had put out a hand, hoping it wasn't uncomfortably clammy. The woman took it, holding back a giggle. “Nicolette. I've… I’ve never had any man tell me I'm beautiful, much less in… in a place like this. I must admit, I… I don't usually frequent these sorts of establishments. Really, my friends practically dragged me in here.”

“I never go out much either. My colleague here insisted I get fresh air, and I would have felt rude if I refused.”

“Exactly!” she agreed. 

“I suppose I should be thankful I came, though. I wouldn't have met you.” Nicolette blushed. “I feel rather silly for thinking you were some sort of troublesome fellow.”

“No, no, it's perfectly understandable. There are some dangerous people in this city. I consider myself adequate in picking them out so that I can avoid them.”

“Really? Could you possibly… teach me how?” Inspector felt a not-so-subtle elbow to his ribs from the peanut gallery. “Certainly,” he answered. “Perhaps in a less cacophonous place, though,” he added as a group nearby suddenly burst into raucous laughter. “C-could I buy you a drink?” he offered, embarrassed that he hadn’t opened with this line. Nicolette frowned uncertainly.

“I’ve… never had a drink before,” she answered awkwardly. “Based upon what I’ve heard from others, I don’t think alcohol would be my cup of tea.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the bitter taste… the effects upon the mind… I don’t know. I find it rather unappetizing.”

“With all due respect, how can you know if you’ve never tried?” Inspector slid his glass towards her. “Try at least one drink of this. It’s honey-based, so it’s sweeter, and the alcohol content is on the lower end.” Nicolette took a small sip.

“Hmm. It’s actually not bad,” she said. “Would you like one of your own?” asked Inspector. She shook her head. “I don’t think I should.” 

“That’s alright. Could I order you any other drink?” She blushed again. “Goodness, no. If I wanted a drink, I would order it myself. There’s no need for you to go spending money on me.”

“Oh, but there is. What sort of gentleman would I be if I thought there wasn’t?” 

Inspector and Nicolette talked for a couple hours more. He introduced her to Ace, and she introduced them to her friends, who were more like the usual female crowd that frequented bars. Talkative, overly jovial, clearly tipsy, Inspector found them all rather dull, not that he’d say it aloud. Perhaps this opinion stemmed from these women standing next to, as far as Inspector was concerned, the most delightful woman on the planet. Eventually, though, Ace became reacquainted with the time, and realized how late it was.

“Insp- Isaac. We gotta go. My wife’s already gonna kill me if I go home now, so there’ll be hell t’ pay if we’re out any later’n this.” Ace had had several drinks too many at this point, and Inspector wasn’t feeling too grounded himself. 

“Miss Nicolette, I hate to ask this of you… but could you possibly drive Ace and I home?” Inspector asked. Nicolette shrugged. “I don’t have much to do tonight anyhow. My only concern is… I can’t drive to my own home in your car.”

“You could spend the night at my apartment,” Inspector suggested. Nicolette blushed. “I-it doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to,” he added hastily, blushing himself. Nicolette laughed. She had the most charming, small laugh, the sort that didn’t demand too much attention but meant just as much as any other expression of enjoyment. “We’ll see, I suppose,” she answered.

\--------------------

They walked Ace into his house, since he was on the brink of passing out. His wife answered the door almost immediately, with an expression both concerned and annoyed. 

“Richard, what have I told you about staying out this late?” she scolded, taking over guiding him into the house. “And how much did you drink tonight?”

“Wilma I don’ wanna do this righ’ now…” Ace slurred, letting her take his hat. “Wait just a minute,” she insisted to Inspector and Nicolette. Out of etiquette, neither objected to that order. 

Ace had a nice house. Inspector supposed that was because he had a family, and despite not caring much about appearances, Ace liked to do things the right way. At least, his right way. Which was fine, until he started abusing the law. Both Sleuth and Inspector had been surprised when Ace married and decided to focus on raising a family alongside his usual line of work. He’d always been the most licentious of them, sleeping with numerous women and not caring much about them. He lived his life even more fast and loose than he did even nowadays, and when he met the woman he’d eventually marry, neither of his coworkers believed their relationship would last very long. 

All of a sudden, a young boy in his pajamas rushed into the room, a small black cape billowing behind him. Ace’s son. “I am the night!” he shouted, drawing his cape over the bottom half of his face. Inspector was never very good with children, so he simply smiled politely in response. The boy climbed onto a nearby armchair. “I am above the law, vanquishing foes the cops are too stupid to catch themselves!”

“That’s not far off from what a detective does,” Inspector quipped. “Well, of course I’m a detective too, but I’m a cool detective!” the boy proclaimed. “I don’t just investigate stuff, I get the job done! Just like my dad does!”

“Ben!” Wilma reprimanded, coming back into the room. “You should be in bed right now.”

“But I’m the night!” he protested. “You can’t fight crime during the day.”

“Yes you can. Your father does it all the time.”

“Really?” he asked incredulously. “Really,” she said, scooping him up. “You can ask him all about it tomorrow morning. But if you want to get up as early as he does, you need to get some sleep.” 

“Okay, mom…” Ben capitulated. Wilma planted a kiss on his forehead, which he flinched at, then set him down so he could go back to his room. “Your son is really sweet,” complimented Nicolette. Wilma sighed wryly. “He’s a handful. But more than worth the trouble. I don’t believe we’ve properly met. I’m Wilma, Richard’s wife,” she introduced, offering her hand. “I’m Nicolette. I met your husband and Isaac while they were out tonight.” Wilma smiled wide, first at Nicolette, then at Inspector. “Is that so? I never thought I’d see the day.” Inspector blinked nervously. “What do you mean?”

“That you’d find yourself a significant other.” Both blushed deeply. “W-well, things aren’t nearly to that point yet…” muttered Inspector. “Sure,” Wilma retorted sarcastically. “Don’t worry,” she said to Nicolette, “he’s a fine choice. Also a handful, but also more than worth the trouble.” Nicolette laughed. “Thank you for your reassurance. I am spending the night at his place, after all.”

“Speaking of which,” Inspector broke in, “we must be on our way. The roads get rather perilous past midnight, after all.”

“Of course. But before you go, I want to know… did he… you know… look at anyone else while you were out?” Wilma asked, referring to Ace. Inspector shook his head with a reassuring smile. “Of course not. Some asked, but he turned down every one of them.” Wilma smiled like she was expecting that answer, but Inspector could tell she was relieved. “Thank you, Isaac. Always a pleasure. Keep looking out for Richard, won’t you?”

“I always do,” said Inspector, tipping his hat as him and Nicolette exited.

“You seem to know the nicest people,” Nicolette remarked as they got into the car. Inspector tittered. “Well, they have their flaws like everyone else, and so do I. Let’s be on our way, shall we?” Nicolette started the car and began driving. “You must think very strangely,” she remarked after a minute. “So I’m told. Such thinking won’t go away anytime soon,” Inspector replied. Nicolette smiled as she stared out over the road.

“I don’t mind it. It’s actually quite nice to hear thoughts so similar to my own.”

\-------------------- 

Itchy had never wished more strongly to have the power of his polar opposite. He was usually able to break through most ropes by building up enough friction through his speed, but whatever strange dark magic was keeping him in place seemed unbreakable. And Slick was already twirling a knife between his fingers. 

“Alright,” he started. “We’re going to be needing a few things from you.” He put one hand on the chair Itchy was held in and drew him close. “Who runs your outfit?” he asked. Itchy spat in his face. “None of your damn business.” Slick recoiled, then came back in, and started running the knife along Itchy’s throat, drawing blood. Itchy wasn’t worried. Seconds later, he could feel the wound closing. Slick looked confused, then enraged. “Okay, new question. The hell is that shit?” he snapped. Itchy smiled sardonically. “What shit?” he asked innocently. Slick pulled him close again, inches from his face. “I feel like there’s another kinda tension goin’ on here - “ Itchy started, only to be interrupted by Slick bringing his knife uncomfortably close to Itchy’s eye. “How. The Shit. Do you assholes heal like that,” he demanded. Itchy blinked, feeling his eyelashes brush the tip of the knife blade. He hadn’t lost an eye yet, but he knew that it wasn’t something that could be fixed. Until he died next, anyway. “We’ve got a damn good tailor,” he whispered, not wanting to move his mouth too much for fear of his eye bobbing into knife range. But seconds after he said this, a horrible pain radiated throughout the side of his face, and he realized that Slick had just stabbed his eye out anyway. And he’d left the knife there. Awful nice of him.

“Now, no more being a smartass,” Slick hissed, taking out another knife. “You’ve still got one eye to lose.” 

“I was serious, dammit…” gasped Itchy, trying not to pass out. The blood running down his face felt so strange when his cheek was half-numb. “We’ve got a guy… who makes our suits… and he’s got a bunch of stuffed mannequins that connect to us. When we get hurt, it shows up on the thing, and he… fixes it…”

“There. That wasn’t hard. Now back to the first question. Who runs your outfit?” Despite his earlier threats, Itchy chose to remain tight-lipped. Then Slick’s right-hand man spoke up. “Boxcars, take out one of your axes.”

“Why?” the big man asked. 

“I want to see how the healing works if you remove one of his hands.” Itchy’s chest tightened. He hadn’t thought of how that would work. If the hand wasn’t right where it should be, it wouldn’t… 

The cool metal of the axe blade touched his wrist for a moment, aiming, then it was raised above Boxcars’s head. Itchy never knew anyone to be capable of sweating as much as he was in that moment. If he refused, this could go on for hours, until he died a slow, painful death while his enemies watched. He had no choice. No amount of loyalty was worth this. Slick knew this, and Itchy wanted to punch him in his stupid face. “I’m sure you’re ready to talk?” he asked with an air of pseudo-diplomacy. 

It was several hours into the morning that the Felt found Itchy buried alive in a box on the Manor grounds — handless, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! There's a grotesque half-baked chapter 9 floating in the ethers, but I'm almost certain that this fic will not be continued. I'm about finished with anything Homestuck by this point (though I might post a silly crossover I wrote at some point), and the next thing I post will be for a much... newer fandom. A certain 3-4 month old fandom with an early-set notoriety. Make of that what you will, but for the time being, I hope this fic made the rotting skeleton that is the Homestuck fandom a little more lively, and made the disintegrating dust pile that is the Problem Sleuth fandom even livelier.


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